


Naruto Soulmate Stories

by Hiruma_Musouka



Series: canon commentary [12]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Universe - FBI, Canon-Typical Violence, Color Blindness, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, One Shot Collection, POV Outsider, Parent-Child Relationship, Rare Pairings, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Universe Alteration, Warring States Era, Women Being Awesome, shinobi culture & views
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiruma_Musouka/pseuds/Hiruma_Musouka
Summary: "What we find in a soulmate is not something wild to tame but something wild to run with." - Robert BraultCh.6: Soulmates make color descriptions messy, frustrating, and occasionally vitally difficult, and Mito would have appreciated meeting hers in a situation which had less in common with those adjectives.Izuna, on the other hand, thinks that vicious explosions are a perfectly desirable trait in a partner provided he's not near the blast radius next time.





	1. soulmate timer, MadaTobi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/gifts), [TheTartWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTartWitch/gifts), [elenathehun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenathehun/gifts), [Red_Hot_Holly_Berries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Hot_Holly_Berries/gifts), [redlipstickkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlipstickkisses/gifts).



> Soulmate stories requested on tumblr from [this prompt list](https://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/150115439050/andhungry-soulmate-au-prompts-send-a-number). Tags vary with chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate timers are more fickle than the weather, but that doesn't stop people from _wanting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anonymous

Madara is never _ever_ telling that goof, but there’s a small part of his brain that’s convinced Hashirama is good luck.

Because soulmate timers are unreliable. It’s incontrovertible fact. Civilians complain because their timers shift: a random day down a random path suddenly adds two weeks or dawdling in your favorite tea shop suddenly cuts off months for no reason. Civilians make entire productions out of trying to understand what actions cause which results while charlatans divine what you should do to meet your soulmate quickly.

For shinobi it’s different: all too often the timer fades to a shifting set of gray numbers as your partner is cut down somewhere else - your only recourse to wait and try again in the next life. Other times that gray dead end is what your born with. And shinobi run missions, even if you are lucky enough to have colored numbers, nearly _every_ mission resets the timer. Even if soulmates weren’t considered questionable in a world where you can only trust your clan, the timers would be useless for a shinobi.

They’re unreliable. Except—

Except Madara’s _isn’t._ Not anymore. Madara’s has been a steady crawl downward since that first meeting where he and Hashirama exchanged names. Since they became _friends_. A few days forward, a few hours back, but _steady_.

It’s more than just good luck. It’s a sign. It has to be. Madara met the first friend to ever agree with his dream, and now his timer’s steady. This one rarity, this one thing Madara’s wanted but could barely bring himself to have faith in, and he might just get it.

So it’s Hashirama’s doing. Somehow.

Not that Madara will _ever_ tell the idiot that.

(It’s bad luck for shinobi to talk about their timers anyway, he figures. The gods laugh at hope.)

.

It’s a random day at the river when Madara realizes the numbers have jumped again. Jumped _forward_ , too.

By a lot.

Madara’s heart jumps into his throat when he sees that it’s less than a week from now. He doesn’t even remember the rest of that meeting clearly aside from a lot of crying on Hashirama’s part and a lot more ~~flailing~~ yelling on his own.

He barely notices their conversation about when they’ll next try to meet until “one week” pins his attention in place. He barely cuts off the urge to snap at Hashirama because _he’ll be busy!_ but—

No. If they’re meeting in a week then he should do what he normally does, right? He should be where he’d normally be.

Just a week. It’s just a week.

.

Except his father finds out. Izuna had followed him and his father knows, but he doesn’t know _everything_.

Not yet.

Some people cover their timers; Madara’s not one of them. But he’s sitting in seiza and his hands are on his knees and they can’t see the numbers on the inside of his wrist.

Why would they even look, after all?

Madara’s not a natural liar. He doesn’t have the right temperament for it and there’s not much point outside missions, but he _is_ a genius and this _matters_.

He knows the Senju and Uchiha are similar in the ways that _all_ successful shinobi are similar. If Madara’s here, in this room, with his father, then he’ll stand still for a blade if Hashirama isn’t the same.

Madara knows where he’s expected to be in a week.

And now he knows what that _means_.

.

Madara lies.

He lies ruthlessly and passionately and with every ounce of strategy he possesses. He lies with the truth: arguing that this is a chance to promote peace. He lies with falsity: twisting just enough information in just the right ways. He lies through Izuna’s surprise and his father’s abrupt interest, and he _wins._

Madara walks away, gritting his teeth and looking unhappy, and Tajima begins planning how many extra shinobi they can spare to come to the river.

They’ll head out in _six_ days. Not _seven_.

Madara slams the door to his room shut and heads for the restroom, hands shaking as he finally closes the door. He breathes, looking in the mirror, somehow unsurprised to see red eyes where black should be, and then he finally looks at his wrist.

The timer has added on years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([original tumblr post](http://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/150123181310/the-one-where-you-have-a-timer-on-your-wrist-that))


	2. where it's impossible to lie, MadaTobi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When there's someone you physically can't lie to, language is revealed as much less straightforward than people typically think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by [redhothollyberries](http://redhothollyberries.tumblr.com/) and [kitsunesongs](http://kitsunesongs.tumblr.com/).

(They’re never going to live it down.)

.

“You are a _jerk_!” Madara spits out, chubby cheeks flushed and short hair bristling as he points accusingly back at the white-haired boy even as his exasperated mother hauls him away from elementary school, Izuna squirming under her other arm.

Tobirama just sniffs, ignoring Hashirama’s hurt puppy-dog eyes. “Yell louder: I don’t think they heard your whining in Kumo.”

.

Soulmate culture is ridiculous. Everyone talks about how soulmates will be the most valuable relationship you’ll have. How it’s the one relationship you’ll can always trust and depend on and love because it’s _true_. Soulmates can’t lie to each other, so they’re “pure and unsullied”.

It’s the most widespread bullshit Tobirama’s ever heard of. Aside from the offensive devaluing of other relationships, it’s founded on the most beloved misunderstanding to ever occur.

Soulmates aren’t about _truth_. Soulmates are about _honesty_.

It’s irrelevant whether it’s an objective truth, or something in the heat of the moment, or if they’re even paying attention to the nonsense coming out of their mouth. So long as they don’t _feel_ it’s untrue right then, they’re capable of saying it. They can use metaphors, exaggeration, playful teasing, dry sarcasm… the soulmate restriction depends on _internal perception._

It’s more complex than lies catching on your tongue.

.

“You are the most infuriating person I have ever met! Even Izuna at his worst barely matches your default level of asshole-ness,” Madara bitches, following the human _cat_ over the rocks and up the goddamn mountain Hashirama has somehow talked _both their families_ into camping on.

(Which, _how!!!_ This is their mothers’ fault, Madara just knows it. _Why_ did the two women have to end up best friends?)

Tobirama doesn’t even look back until he finishes deftly climbing up and over the last boulder to arrive at the highest campground. “Your mastery of the English language continues to be an inspiration to us all, Madara.”

Madara glares up at that familiar smirk before rolling his eyes and grabbing the hand Tobirama’s holding out, letting the other teen help him up.

For a peaceful moment the two of them just look over the scenery, appreciating the gorgeous view. It’s fall and the leaves are turning and it’s as if there’s an entire ocean of golden-red, as far as the eye can see.

They’re the first here, of course, given they made the hiking trail into a speed competition. Well, they’re first aside from their fathers who decided to be boring and take the normal route by driving the cars.

“Well,” Tobirama says softly, lips tilted in a faint smile as wind brushes hair out of his face. “I suppose the view makes up for being stuck with you for three days.”

Madara elbows him in the side. “I wouldn’t actually do it, but it’s _really tempting_ to throw you off this mountain.”

“I would drag you down with me.”

“You would,” Madara agrees, ruefully amused before turning to look back down the trail. “HEY!” he yells, ignoring Tobirama’s punch to his shoulder. “Are you guys even _moving!?_ Hurry it up!”

“One of these days, you’re going to wake up bald,” Tobirama warns, seeing several cousins gesture emphatically at them, “and you’re going to have no idea who did it because there will be too many suspects.”

“Are you saying it won’t be you? Because I plan to kick your ass now if that happens.”

“I like your hair,” Tobirama says honestly, eyes flicking over the fluffy mess pulled through the back of Madara’s baseball cap. “It’s one of your few redeeming features after you open your mouth.”

.

Tobirama plans to write a scathing research paper one day on the subject of soulmates. Specifically comparing the reality versus the public perception.

For example, insults between soulmates frequently come out perfectly fine. People don’t insult others to deceive, and they don’t usually stop to think ’ _this woman isn’t a female dog’_ or ’ _this is a lie, their parents were married’_.

Insults are typically emotionally driven. People are _honestly_ irritated when they use insults. They think ’ _you drive me_ crazy _and I want to piss you off!’_

They _don’t_ tend to think ‘ _this isn’t true_ ’.

Which means the divorce rate for soulmates is much higher than people admit. Knowing your partner has to be “truthful” results in a wealth of problems when you don’t acknowledge that misunderstandings happen or that people can be thoughtless or get angry and go too far. People can honestly think cruel things, especially when they’re hurt or irate, but it doesn’t mean it’s their genuine opinion when they’re calm.

But society forgets that frequently. Some of the nastiest breakups in history happen because people think being soulmates _makes things easier_. That it makes thorough communication less necessary somehow.

It drives Tobirama crazy.

There’s an entire _genre_ of movies devoted to soulmate misunderstandings! How do people watch romcoms and then fail to apply _any of it_ to their own lives?

Some people say polite lies during greetings to see if they’re a match, such as ‘y _our hair is blue’ or ‘I’m a ninja’_ and so on. Shouldn’t that make it more obvious that there will be minor problems? If you can’t lie to avoid something as simple as _'your outfit looks terrible’_ , then you can’t say all the other polite lies that buffer human relationships either.

Of course, Tobirama’s not in the habit of lying to spare feelings anyway. Blunt and pragmatic are a fairly accurate descriptions for him.

And Hashirama needs to stop giving him those plaintive looks. He’s still less offensive than Madara.

…Well, he’s less _accidentally_ offensive than Madara at any rate.

.

“This is _your fault_ ,” Tobirama seethes as he slams shut the door to Madara’s room. “Do you have any idea what I just walked in on?”

Madara jerks his face up from the bed, staring blearily at Tobirama with a line imprinted on his cheek from a college textbook.

It’s not cute. It’s not cute _at all_.

Madara turns to stare like a zombie at the table where his keys are sitting next to his wallet. “Did you pick my locks?” he yawns, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I stole your brother’s wallet during my _retreat_ out the door. _Why_ did you kick Izuna out of your apartment?” Tobirama demands, shoving Madara over so he’ll have somewhere to sit in the tiny room.

“I have a term paper and he wouldn’t. stop. _flirting_ over the phone,” Madara groans, eyes half-lidded and exhausted. “And it’s not my fault you’re related to that woman. What do you _want_ , I have to study.”

Tobirama snorts. “Because you’re getting so much done right now. You look terrible.”

“And _you_ look gorge—!” Madara’s voice squeaks to a stop, suddenly _wide awake_ as he chokes on his tongue.

.

And while Tobirama’s on the topic of soulmates in society, he’d like to temporarily diverge onto a tangent and lodge a complaint with the romcom genre in general for the crime of being boring and predictable. He can’t even claim ambivalence any longer due to the sheer amount of movies Hashirama’s made him watch as a 'bonding activity’. It’s torturous. When the plot isn’t unnecessarily convoluted, the characters are unobservant.

How long can it _possibly_ take to notice you can’t lie around someone?

.

Tobirama blinks.

There’s a pause where his brain automatically finishes the sentence he can’t possibly have heard right, except that Madara’s wide eyes say otherwise.

“OUT!” the Uchiha bellows abruptly, flushing red as he lunges up, knocking Tobirama off the bed. “I have to study! And eat! And drown myself! Out!”

Madara yelps as hands yank at his calf, sending him tumbling to the floor before he can escape the room.

“ _Repeat that_ ,” Tobirama orders, struggling to keep hold while the embarrassed man does his best to squirm free and scramble out the door.

“NO! There is nothing worth repeating! I didn’t say an—” and then Madara’s voice vanishes abruptly even though his mouth is still moving. His expression goes startled and he slaps a hand against his throat.

Tobirama freezes where he has one knee pinning Madara’s left thigh painfully to the floor, hands clenched around the brunet’s shirt and forearm. “Did you just…”

Madara stares back at him with eyes so wide the whites show. “… I think I’m hallucinating from excess caffeine and too little sleep.”

Tobirama swallows, throat dry and abruptly aware of how dark eyes dart down to his throat with that motion. This is going to be _humiliating_ if it’s true, but- “What color is my hair, Madara?”

“…It’s br—” Madara’s voice vanishes before he completes the word, and Tobirama can see the exhausted man’s brain ticking over as he runs through the implications, pink creeping up Madara’s face as a weird mix of delight and mortification sets in.

Tobirama sits back on his heels, trying to think of a single time he’s ever bothered to try lying to Madara and coming up blank. Apparently this is what happens when two kids are blunt and argumentative brats and later develop a default communication style of snarky insults and openly honest dialogue.

They set themselves up to be _mocked_.

Tobirama closes his eyes, already hearing Touka and his mother laughing at him. “I don’t even like y—”

His throat stops vibrating even though he’s still speaking, and Tobirama crosses his arms and coughs. He peeks an eye open to see Madara still staring at him and stares right back.

Madara groans abruptly, lifting his head and thumping it onto the floor underneath him. “… We’re both morons,” he mutters.

It’s annoying how _that_ phrase comes out fine, but unfortunately, Tobirama has to agree.

.

…Apparently, the real-life answer for the romcom scenario is 'roughly ten years’.

Tobirama’s not exactly enthused to be one of the participants involved in discovering that. The only thing worse than watching romcoms with Hashirama is finding out he’s been _living_ one.

.

(They’re never going to live it down. _Never._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([original tumblr post](http://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/150163766805/i-took-my-sweet-time-thinking-about-which-prompt))


	3. discovery through touch, MadaTobi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most shinobi don't have a lot skin exposed for accidental contact. It isn't about avoiding enemy soulmates: it's just sensible for battle. And unless you're using taijutsu, you're unlikely to touch anyway.
> 
> Except for better or worse, Tobirama finds his match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, AHOY!** I both save and kill people in this chapter.
> 
> For anonymous, [Owlgirl1998](http://owlgirl1998.tumblr.com/), and [elemental-flame](http://elemental-flame.tumblr.com/). Possibly inspired by the [first chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8155588/chapters/18689989) of TheTartWitch's fic and blackkat's comment on it, so this chapter is also gifted to them.

_Izuna is getting more and more dangerous with his Mangekyo_ , Tobirama thinks grimly.

He deflects Izuna's attack, blocks a kick, and strikes with his own sword. The Uchiha dodges, gaining distance to launch a fireball that Tobirama counters with a water dragon. The resulting steam briefly blocks their line-of-sight, and Tobirama narrows his eyes, palming a smoke bomb.

He'll only get one chance to take the Uchiha off guard with Hiraishin.

Ignoring the background roar of Madara's flames clashing against Hashirama's mokuton, Tobirama covers the field in a thick layer of smoke. It can't block Izuna's sight completely, but it will obscure his vision enough for a brief delay in the Uchiha's reaction time. Tobirama launches a barrage of kunai, homing in on the chakra he can sense, and readies his sword.

Izuna dodges,

the Hiraishin seal arrives,

and Tobirama _moves_.

Madara screams in the distance, Izuna's eyes widen in shock, and right before Tobirama's strike lands, the Uchiha vanishes in a pop of smoke.

Metal bites into flesh as Madara appears in Izuna's place, twisting with a pained grunt to slam his forearm into Tobirama's neck as the Senju passes him. Both men stumble, thrown off balance, and the battle pauses as the smoke clears.

Tobirama coughs, rubbing his neck with his free hand as Izuna runs to his brother's side with worried curses spilling from his lips. Tobirama watches as Madara drops his gunbai to put pressure on the seeping gash over his left pectoral. Izuna absently grabs the large weapon before latching onto Madara's left arm, clenching his teeth and glaring around the battlefield as the younger Uchiha blatantly reanalyzes the situation now that his brother's been wounded.

But Madara himself holds Tobirama's gaze carefully, Sharingan eyes darting to the approaching Hashirama before returning back to the younger Senju. There's a grim, relieved satisfaction in Madara's eyes even as blood keeps trickling past his fingers, and despite their allegiances, Tobirama can't help but respect the other man.

The Uchiha Clan Head is stubborn, fierce, and an enemy of unparalleled danger, but he's also fiercely protective of his kin and of his brother especially. Even to his own detriment.

It's an attitude Tobirama can appreciate. Now if only the fool would listen to Hashirama a bit more and Izuna a little less.

Hashirama tries to talk to Madara, entreating him to agree to peace, genuine worry edging into his tone as crimson slowly spreads through dark fabric. Tobirama feels a sympathetic itch in his own throat as he watches the older Uchiha cough, blood flecking his lips. Izuna _snarls_ as Hashirama steps forward to raise his hands in what Tobirama recognizes as the beginning of a healing technique but which Izuna interprets as something deadly, given how he jerks his brother backwards.

Madara _stumbles_ at the move and Tobirama watches solemnly as both their brothers panic. Izuna yells a retreat, slamming a smoke cover down before Hashirama can lunge forward.

"He should have let me heal Madara!" Hashirama worries, frustration edging his tone as he sheathes his sword.

Tobirama snorts. "Izuna believes your requests for peace are a deception meant to lower their guard. He would never let you near his brother."

Hashirama continues without seeming to hear him. "He shouldn't have done that! Why would Madara do that when he can't heal himself!"

Tobirama stares at his brother for a moment, remembering Madara's panicked scream right before Izuna was nearly hit, and shakes his head. For all that Hashirama dreams of peace and longs to restore their friendship, it seems his brother doesn't understand Uchiha Madara nearly as well as he thinks he does.

It's a little disorienting for Tobirama to realize that, in at least this one way, Madara is far more similar to himself than to Hashirama. It's possible Hashirama is just overreacting without thinking because he's emotionally invested in Madara and not Izuna, but still...

Perhaps this is why Madara never agrees to a treaty even though he sometimes hesitates: Hashirama speaks of the peace they could create for everyone and the dreams he's been clinging to for years, but Madara had turned his back on that peace as a teen. He had relinquished it without hesitation in favor of his family, and Hashirama has apparently never properly considered what that action implies about Madara while formulating his arguments.

If Hashirama spoke in terms of family rather than a dream of ideal peace... it might work.

 _Of course_ , Tobirama thinks, rubbing at his aching neck, _given Hashirama's persuasion has failed to counter Izuna's influence so far, maybe I should try speaking to Madara myself._

It certainly can't worsen the current state of affairs.

.

.

It takes a mere half hour for Tobirama to begin choking on his own breath.

.

.

_"Madara!" Izuna cries, catching his brother as the older man slumps to the floor. Madara gasps wetly, black spots dancing in his vision, unable to breathe no matter how much blood he expels from his lungs._

_"Move, boy! We need to relieve the pressure building in his chest."_

_Madara tries to hold steady, right arm slung over Izuna's shoulder to stay upright as Elder Satomi cuts his shirt off and shoves a hollow needle into his chest. There's a grim silence as the old healer works, cleaning the wound and draining out air and fluid through the needle, but Madara already knows how this will end._

_No matter how much his brother panics and prays, the Uchiha simply don't have any talented chakra healers left alive at this time._

_"Hikak'," Madara coughs, ignoring the agony in his chest to point a finger at the shinobi sitting in silent vigil near the door. "You are to 'elp Izuna once—"_

_"Stop_ talking _!" Izuna snaps, fear sharpening his voice._

_Madara sends a weary look at his baby brother, squeezing him in a half hug as familiar features begin to blur in front of him. "Don' die for noth'g, Izuna. Use my eyes to protect yourself... take the trea'y—" he cuts off, jerking back from the hand Satomi had placed on his forearm and accidentally triggering another hacking fit through lungs half strangled._

_"Wha' was tha'?" Madara weakly demands, narrowing unfocused eyes down at the blood-splattered skin near his left wrist._

_"Just a tender bruise," Satomi says brusquely, a hidden thread of sadness in her voice as she ignores Hikaku's sharp inhale and Izuna's shocked hiss. She pats Madara's hand, careful not to brush against the light blue mark shaped like a strange double-headed trident that is slowly surfacing on Madara's skin. "Ignore it and concentrate on managing your breathing while I patch you up."_

_Madara snorts painfully, skeptical of the lie but deciding that it hardly matters now. "Izuna—"_

_"You're going to be_ fine _," Izuna insists, voice cracking._

 _"—we're_ losing _," Madara admits reluctantly, blood slipping over his lips, unable to even detect the sharp pinch of Satomi's stitches through the agony compressing his lungs. "Losin' numb'rs to death and deserti—" a wet cough has him turning his head away from Izuna._

_"Is that your order then, Lord Madara?" Hikaku asks quietly._

_"Be silent!" Izuna snaps viciously._

_"I wan' our clan to_ live, _Izuna," Madara says tiredly, threading red-stained fingers into his brother's black hair and resting their foreheads together. "I wan'_ you _to live."_

 _"It's a_ lie _," Izuna pleads, clutching at Madara's shoulder as he avoids interfering with Satomi's work. "Brother, look at what they've_ done _. Their truce can't be anything but a lie when we've spilled as much of their blood as they have ours."_

_"They haven't killed any of the deserters," Hikaku interjects quietly, eyes lowered in respect._

_"You!"_

_"Live," Madara requests again, desperation sneaking into his tone now that he's running out of time. Out of time to protect his brother, out of time to convince him, out of time for_ everything _. "It's all, all I wan'. Live, be happy, have a fam—" His voice cuts out as Madara struggles to bring more air into his lungs through wet, rasping breaths._

_"Madara," Izuna chokes out._

.

.

"I can't find anything wrong," Hashirama says worriedly, glowing hands held to Tobirama's chest as his little brother drags in another difficult breath. Touka watches in concern from the doorway, moving to the side to let Mito through now that the red-headed kunoichi has returned from negotiating secure arrangements for the defecting Uchihas.

"I think it's easing up," Tobirama says as Mito kneels to his left. He inhales cautiously as the vice-like pressure in his chest starts to disperse. It still aches, phantom pangs spiking weakly, but the searing agony that had increased in increments over the last two hours is fading even as they speak.

"Was it a poison, do you think?" Touka asks, narrowing dark eyes as she looks her cousin over.

"I've never heard of a poison with those effects," Tobirama murmurs, rubbing at his chest.

"I would have felt a poison," Hashirama agrees, confident in his skills as he runs another scan over Tobirama's chest. "But we need to know what it was before it has the chance to happen again."

Mito stills to Tobirama's left and the gathered Senju look towards her. She stares at Tobirama's neck before lifting her hand up. "May I?" she requests, hovering over his neck.

Tobirama allows it with a curious look, but as soon as fingers brush his skin, he wrenches back abruptly, hand snapping out to break Mito's wrist as anger shoots through him.

She neatly dodges Tobirama's attack, smacking his hand away with the decorated tessen she normally keeps hidden up her sleeve and watches as Tobirama stills, confusion flashing across his face as the unprompted fury drains out of him. "I thought so," Mito murmurs in a mixed tone of satisfaction and regret. "We won't need to worry about it happening again."

"Mito, what's happening?" Hashirama asks, looking at his wife.

Mito folds her hands in front of her, holding Tobirama's gaze with sympathetic resolution. "They're just as uncommon to find in Uzushio, but I remember what happened between the few pairs we had when I was a girl. You fought an different opponent today, didn't you? An Uchiha who struck at your neck?"

"... Uchiha Madara," Tobirama confirms slowly as Mito nods.

"There's an emerging soulmark on your neck shaped like three red tomoe with hollow centers, linked together by their tails. It looks like one of the descriptions I've heard spoken of the Mangekyo Sharingan."

"But that's _good!"_ Hashirama exclaims, excited hope building in his eyes and voice as he shoots to his feet to pace. "He's bound to listen now that—"

"How the hell is that related to what happened to Tobirama?" Touka interrupts, ruthlessly dragging Hashirama back on topic. "Aside from having a mark, soulmates just feel a second heartbeat and a vague directional sense, don't they? I've never heard about anyone choking, and Butsuma's generation would _definitely_ have passed that on considering how ambivalently soulmates are viewed."

"Most of them can feel each other dying," Mito adds softly, turning sympathetic but firm eyes towards her husband as Hashirama freezes with a wounded sound.

Tobirama closes his eyes, feeling the last of the phantom pain wisp away to leave a dull tugging sensation that splutters weakly like the last pinch of wick on a dimming candle.

There is no sense of a second heartbeat.

"It's turning black, isn't it?" Tobirama asks neutrally, already aware of the answer as Mito nods. Hashirama cracks, swiftly striding out the door as he flees from the stark truth. Tobirama waves Touka off, wordlessly asking her to follow his brother as he remains behind.

He doubts Hashirama will appreciate the reminder of exactly whose sword it was that struck down his friend.

"Are you alright?" Mito asks once they're alone.

"I'm fine," Tobirama answers. "The pain's completely gone."

The Uzumaki slides an unimpressed look over at him before rising to prepare a pot of tea with the supplies that had been abandoned earlier after his fit started. He accepts the cup of green tea she hands him, taking a small sip and letting the warmth seep into his hands.

After a several minutes of silence from the unmovable woman, he gives up and sighs.

"It just seems like a waste," Tobirama says finally, trying to search out adequate words to express the odd blankness of his initial reaction. "All those opportunities to discover it over the years, all the lives that could have been saved by a tie solid enough to build a non-aggression pact around, and now that we know it, it's already lost to us. It's just... such a waste."

"It's lost to you as well as us," Mito points off evenly as she sips her own tea.

"I don't," Tobirama frowns, "I don't know how much I'm bothered by that. I don't remember even speaking to Madara myself. I had never met him one-to-one, never knew him, and obviously never even brushed against him in a fight. I knew _of_ him through Hashirama and Izuna more than anything. He's more... lost potential, a 'what if', than an individual."

"You're entitled to that," Mito says. "You're entitled to feel anything you like about a soulmate you didn't know."

"I don't think Hashirama will see it from that perspective," Tobirama predicts. Knowing his brother as he does, Hashirama will be incredibly upset about Madara's death. Tobirama's uncertain opinions on his own soulmate, on the soulmate he had wounded and who had then died a slow and painful from those wounds... no, Hashirama wouldn't understand Tobirama's perspective when it came to Madara at all.

Especially since Hashirama had been within arms reach of healing his friend before Izuna vanished with him.

Speaking of which...

"Izuna won't take this well," Tobirama says, grimly certain as he reaches up to touch the blackening mark high up on his neck. "There isn't a single thing about this situation that he'll react well to."

"Then we'll have to be prepared for that," Mito replies simply, falling silent alongside Tobirama as they drink their tea and think.

 _It really is such a waste_ , Tobirama thinks, a hint of melancholy sneaking into his thoughts as he rubs at his neck, unable to feel a difference between the soulmark and the surrounding skin. He's tempted to get a mirror to look at it for himself. He's not very accustomed to seeing Madara's Mangekyo instead of Izuna's, and he can't quite recall the exact curve of Madara's pattern.

Maybe once it finishes changing. If he's never going to be able to see it in full color, Tobirama would rather not remember seeing any hints of color at all.

.

.

A week later a missive arrives from the Uchiha Clan about brokering a ceasefire. It's not quite the peace talks that Hashirama has been dreaming of for years, but parts of that dream have already been irrevocably shattered anyway. And a week isn't anywhere _near_ long enough to reconcile Tobirama's brother to events judging from the way Hashirama pauses with a pained look on the new clan head's signature.

Frankly, Tobirama finds it confusing and deeply suspicious because _nothing_ he knows about Izuna makes him think the Uchiha would would speak with the Senju to pursue peace, especially not after Madara's death. He's certain there must be extenuating circumstances driving this decision. Either a plot by Izuna or, possibly, a result of internal pressures and politics in the Uchiha Clan itself.

Madara had been their strongest fighter by far. With him dead... it might be this isn't Izuna's choice so much as the only option available after yet another blow to the Uchiha Clan's ability to match the Senju. They've already been having clan members desert to their long-term enemy which is a blatant signal for how bad their situation has become. Tobirama could understand Izuna gritting his teeth if he really believes it's the last option to have anything of the clan left alive at all.

And that seems to be the exact motivation behind it when they hold the first brief meeting to discuss terms. They meet at the Naka's riverbank as Izuna had requested, which made no sense at all except in hindsight.

Hindsight being the rolling miasma of vindictive hatred that Tobirama can sense underneath Izuna's bloodshot eyes and facade of composure.

The other man fakes it well throughout the meeting, hiding his grief and keeping better control over himself than many other shinobi Tobirama has met, especially considering he's certain Izuna would like nothing better than to tear them both apart with his bare hands. But the Uchiha is still sensible enough to know he wouldn't manage to kill either of them in this situation and clear headed enough to successfully hammer out rough terms for how future meetings will be handled.

The moments of cheerful sunniness from Izuna are downright disturbing though. Apparently the Uchiha is the type to shroud anger under a bright facade outside of battle, possibly because it makes his subtly malicious comments more painful for Hashirama or possibly because that's just how Izuna maintains what control he has over himself. Either way, Tobirama ends up clenching his teeth during several parts of the meeting because of how Izuna frequently picks at Hashirama's pain like a child scratching off scabs.

Izuna sneaks mention of his brother into parts of the conversation, wielding his own grief and rage as delicate weapons to cut into the Senju Clan Head, black eyes locked onto Hashirama like banked infernos as Izuna watches the verbal blows land. The Uchiha gets sunnier and more vicious whenever Hashirama winces, enraged by an enemy mourning a man Hashirama's own kin had killed, but he also worsens whenever Hashirama pretends to be unmoved.

It's likely only Uchiha Hikaku's presence at Izuna's side that makes the other man control his tongue even this much given how hard Izuna's struggling for control. It becomes clear that the location at the Naka river was chosen not as a neutral spot but as part of a psychological attack: the sound of the river acting as a constant reminder of the childhood meetings where everything had started, of the friend Hashirama had lost and of the brother Izuna clearly blamed both Senju for killing.

The only thing more telling about Izuna's state of mind is how he completely refrains from looking towards Tobirama.

"Why did you ask to meet at all?" Tobirama asks with icy sharpness, right before they separate, temper boiling at how emotionally tattered his brother is. "I would have never expected you to request peace, Izuna."

"I didn't want to at all!" the wretched Uchiha says brightly, blood dripping from a white-knuckled clenched fist. "But it was my beloved brother's dying wish that I protect the clan and take your thrice-damned treaty. I would be a _terrible_ brother if I broke my last promise to Madara when he struggled to make me give it, what with having suffered two torturous hours of slowly asphyxiating as his lungs collapsed. But now _I_ have a question," Izuna chirps, smile widening infinitesimally at Hashirama's paling face. "What is the significance of this symbol?"

Izuna flicks a folded piece of paper over to Hashirama, still ignoring Tobirama's existence but calming slightly as Hikaku steps forward to stand a little closer to his new clan leader. Tobirama glances over at the paper from Hashirama's right as his brother opens it and blinks to see the marker for his new Hiraishin technique drawn out.

Tobirama hadn't expected Izuna to have noticed the design inscribed on the kunais he had thrown.

Hashirama hesitates but, "That's the symbol used in Tobirama's new Hiraishingiri attack."

Izuna stills, face blanking before his chakra lashes out around him. Rocks shatter as his expression twists and he _glares_ at a stone-faced Tobirama. Black eyes catch on Tobirama's neck, glimpsing the soulmark lying neatly above the neckline of Tobirama's black shirt, unhidden at this angle by the white fur of his collar. Izuna's eyes flare red, swirling into an unfamiliar Mangekyo that has more in common with the curving circles of _Madara's_ design than Izuna's more straightforward lines.

The Uchiha opens his mouth, chakra writhing as his Sharingan begins to rotate before slamming his jaw shut again. Izuna gives Tobirama a poisonously bright smile and whirls around, striding off at a brisk pace before vanishing.

Uchiha Hikaku gives a brief polite bow, expression neutral as he moves to follow.

"Wait," Tobirama says, watching to younger man pause. "Why did Izuna want to know about that symbol?"

The Uchiha's second-in-command looks between the paper and the two Senju brothers before settling on Tobirama's red eyes. "Lord Izuna wanted to know because it's the shape of the soulmark that Healer Satomi found on Lord Madara's arm shortly before he passed," he says simply.

There's quiet as the brothers consider that, and Hikaku nods once more before departing.

Tobirama silently takes the paper from Hashirama's loose grip, staring down at the rough sketch. The Hiraishin is the only technique he's personally created that has a single representative symbol so it makes sense, in a way, that this would be what stood for him on Madara's skin. But the irony - that it's the same technique that's responsible for the fatal blow Madara took - is _biting_.

No wonder Izuna abruptly lost it.

... He'll probably react worse if Tobirama asks what color it once was.

.

.

Izuna strides through the Uchiha compound, smile still rigidly fixed in place. Most people respectfully avoid him as he makes a bee-line for the main house. Which is just his house now. Hikaku trails in his wake, and he pretends not to notice the few older kinsmen who look like they might want to speak with him.

Considering he hasn't been able to calm down enough to drop out of Mangekyo, they're not going to believe he missed seeing them. Of course, if they have any _sense,_ they aren't going to fuss about it either.

He slides open the shōji door with controlled care and snatches up one of the teacups displayed on the low table in the center of the room. It's a lovely thing: dark glazed clay, carefully fired and glazed, with a small intricate design of a silver dragon with red accents curling around the cup.

A flash of indifferent red eyes crosses his mind and he hurls the cup at the wall.

"I'm going to kill him," Izuna swears cheerfully, fingers itching for his sword as he watches the cup burst apart, thousands of shards flying everywhere. "I am going to _murder_ that bastard Senju!"

Izuna stands there for several moments, hands trembling while he deliberately reminds himself of all the reasons why it would be _utterly stupid_ to try killing the white haired Senju right now. The primary reason being that it _wouldn't work_ as things stand.

Hikaku arrives with a bottle of sake and cups, sliding the door shut and eying the scattered shards knowingly.

"With all due respect, Izuna," the younger shinobi says, dropping the excess formality now that they're out of public, "I don't think we can afford for you to try attacking Tobirama, even if it wasn't doomed to failure. The clan—"

"I know!" Izuna snaps, dropping to the floor next to the table. "The clan needs this truce to survive. I'm not moronic even if I _hate_ it. I'll do what's needed for our family - even for those _traitors_ with the Senju - but _one day_..." he trails off, digging nails into the wood as he remembers with perfect clarity the sight of Tobirama raising his chin, unashamed of the marking on his neck or of having murdered the man it should have represented.

Hikaku silently pours them both a cup of the sake, watching as Izuna knocks his portion back immediately before pouring another drink without comment. "If that's what you're planning, you're going to need to act with more subtlety," Hikaku advises thoughtfully, "because there's no way anyone observant will miss you imagining his death as angry as you are. Senju Tobirama will see it coming, and you were too evenly matched _before_ he could teleport. And you promised Lord Madara that you would live."

"And I will," Izuna declares fiercely, resting his arm on the table and sipping the sake slowly this time. "I'll live, we'll establish this pipe dream of a village to strengthen and protect our clan, and we'll _watch_. Because Senju Tobirama is walking around with Madara's design inked on his skin while my brother was _buried_ with the _brand_ of the very thing that his killer used to murder him! If there was ever any question of letting the bastard live, it's burned to ashes now."

"You'll have to contend with Hashirama, too," Hikaku warns.

"Only if he's there," Izuna counters, calming as his mind starts ticking through potential options. "This won't be a fight over conflicting missions or a personal clash between our clans, so it doesn't need to be a battlefield conflict. An assassination, something set up with a third party maybe..."

"He's the Senju heir," Hikaku reminds pointedly, sipping at his own drink. "He's undoubtedly survived just as many assassination attempts as you have. And those aren't your specialty. You can't let yourself get caught during this."

Izuna slowly swirls the sake in his glass, red draining from his eyes as he turns facts over in his head, doing his best to focus his fury on ripping apart the problem rather than uselessly raging against it. "You're surprisingly in favor of this."

"I am _not,_ " Hikaku says indignantly, throwing him a derisive look. "I think it's entirely reckless and stupid and liable to bite us _all_ in the ass. But none of that's going to do a damn thing to dissuade you from it. And I _am_ loyal: it's easy to understand your perspective. So instead of uselessly yelling myself hoarse into the void to try and get you to reconsider, I'm going to jam kunai into any holes in your plans so that you can hopefully pull it off without launching us all back into active warfare OR getting yourself killed. Because if you die getting revenge for Madara, our late clan head is going to come back from the dead and crush me with a comet or something for letting you be stupid."

Izuna snorts, lips twitching as he lightly punches Hikaku in the arm. "Cocky brat. So what do _you_ recommend then?"

"Be a _shinobi_ ," the young man stresses. "Be patient, opportunistic, and _sneaky_. If the peace actually works then _use_ it. The longer it lasts, the clan stronger the clan becomes. Plan for a long-term alliance and plan to _not get caught._ Work like you want it to succeed, and then _don't_ _get others involved_. There's no way the Senju aren't going to look for conspiracies or traps: we certainly will and it's easier to see with more people. And _wait_ for kami's sake! Get stronger and _wait!_ The others can believe whatever they want, but if you think Tobirama won't be looking for your sword in his back for several years then you've completely lost your head."

It's not what Izuna would _prefer_ to do, but if wishes were reality, he would still have brothers and the Senju Clan would be a smoking crater of salted earth. "And you? What do you see yourself doing?"

"What else?" Hikaku scoffs. "I'll be training like hell to match you so I can keep you from burning yourself in your own blaze."

"It's a plan then," Izuna says lightly, a dark edge to his cheerful smile as he breathes in, briefly savoring the mental image of carving that soulmark right off Tobirama's neck while the Senju bleeds out. "Secure the peace, train like devils, find counters for the damn bastard's tricks and when the chance appears..."

Izuna channels fire chakra through his cup, watching the alcohol boil in a turbulent dance before it rapidly evaporates.

"When the chance presents itself, Senju Tobirama _dies_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post on tumblr](http://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/151444433150/yasss-soulmates-how-about-5-madatobi).


	4. hearing your name, MadaTobi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strangely enough, guns hadn't been involved when _either_ of them had imagined meeting each other, but there you are: life's full of _pleasant_ little surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by [elenathehun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elenathehun/pseuds/elenathehun) and one anonymous person on tumblr

" _Tobirama Senju_ ," a deep voice says with relish from behind him and Tobirama freezes, breath catching in his throat as his hand stills on the doorknob. His name echoes in his ears and reverberates in his bones, as if his whole body is a tuning fork that had been waiting for the right force to strike it. It's a bizarre but unmistakable feeling.

At twenty-nine years old and a decade past the national average of nineteen, Tobirama had assumed he was part of the majority that never meet their soulmate. And while he's rather pleased to be wrong, it also presents a very big problem.

Because the only thing that _should_ be behind him right now is his _empty_ apartment.

The soft, familiar click of a hammer cocking sounds through the silence, and Tobirama slowly raises his hands above his head.

"Why don't you lock the door and have a seat, Senju," the intruder casually orders, "and stay away from the security system. It took me too long to deal with so I'll shoot you on principle if you set it off. And leave your guns and knives here, as well."

Tobirama narrows his eyes in irritation at being commanded in his own home but he locks the door and slowly lowers his concealed weapons to the floor. He considers keeping the small throwing knives on his arm, but the other man apparently knows about them already and calls him on it when he tries.

He takes a breathe while deliberately stomping on his temper and finally turns around. His soulmate is standing near the entrance to the living room, leaning against the wall with a revolver trained on his head. He strains his eyes, trying to make out distinct features through the nighttime shadows, but with the lights off he can only see pale skin and a mess of dark hair.

The man's free hand waves towards the living room and Tobirama starts walking, careful to keep the man in sight.

"Did you know," the man begins once Tobirama's seated, "that the price on your head is _ridiculously_ high? Normally I don't care who hires me outside some basic requirements but one million? One million dollars for a single hit? On an _insurance investigator?_ I'm not moronic. That's blatantly suspicious."

The man flips on the lights and goes to sit down in the chair across from Tobirama, idly drumming gloved fingers against the armrest. He's a handsome man with a traditionally Asian cast to his features despite his wild hair. There's an vivid intensity in his eyes and discipline in how he holds his body, and Tobirama knows men a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier who would find this stranger too intimidating to meet head on.

The gun's the only displeasing part of the picture, if Tobirama's honest with himself. Even the fact that he's almost certainly an Uchiha isn't offensive. It's _problematic_ given it means his soulmate likely has a warrant out for his arrest, but that's not an insurmountable roadblock.

"But the _Nidaime_..." the man drawls, a smirk twisting his lips, "that explains the bounty perfectly. The agent responsible for the second highest number of arrests since the inception of the Konoha agency has definitely made more than a few enemies. You did impressive work hiding your real job. Even your finances seem like just another insurance employee. It took quite a bit of careful digging to unearth your real employment history."

"Well it wasn't buried deep enough apparently," Tobirama disagrees, a frown on his face as he eyes the other man. "Enlighten me: if you were hired to take my head, why didn't you shoot me when I first arrived."

All humor drops from the man's face immediately. "I want access to Konoha's files."

"No," Tobirama refuses immediately, glaring past the gun.

"It's not a request," the man says flatly. "My brother vanished somewhere in Konoha and dropped completely out of contact three days ago despite promising to call. The only reason you're still alive is that using your files and access levels will be quicker than relying on my own resources. Find my brother and you live."

With a considering look, Tobirama drops his hands and crosses his arms despite how the Uchiha tenses. "For something that's not a request, you certainly sound like you're asking for help," he says pointedly.

There's a twitch in the man's cheek like a repressed grimace and for the first time he lowers the gun. "Your files are... impressively protected," he admits grudgingly, reluctant respect in his expression. "I can't get through your encryption fast enough to make it worth killing you and finding him myself."

He gestures towards a file lying on the table in front of Tobirama. "That's the information I have on my brother's last location. Help me and I'll leave you alive no matter what happened to my brother. But if you work _swiftly_ and he's alright when we find him, I'll do pro bono work to ensure you never need to worry about my employer again."

"I would consider it _quickly_ ," the Uchiha emphasizes after a minute full of silent staring, neck muscles drawing tight with tension as Tobirama fails to react. "Your contract specifically called for a slow and painful death. It would benefit you greatly to be rid of this particular enemy. And," he adds darkly, eyes gleaming through his black bangs, "I am perfectly willing to shoot you in non-vital places if you don't make up your mind soon."

Tobirama raises an eyebrow. "Your name?"

"Uchiha," he answers tersely.

"Your _first_ name," Tobirama stresses, picking up the file and watching as the man subtly relaxes.

"What does it matter?" his soulmate asks with a scowl.

Tobirama just stares up through his lashes, hands paused on the documents until the other man gives in with a frustrated growl.

"It's Madara, alright!" the brunet snaps, composure shattering completely. "Now can we find my damn brother!"

" _Madara Uchiha_ ," Tobirama muses deliberately, smirk spreading across his face as Madara's eyes blow wide, lips parting in shock as he registers the same soulmate reaction Tobirama had experienced earlier. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but being held hostage by an intruder wasn't my imagined scenario for meeting you."

"No," Madara croaks, voice strained as he holsters his gun. "That's, that's not... _fuck!_ "

Tobirama snorts. "How eloquent. Now go get me a coffee while I figure out how to find your brother."

The mercenary drags a single hand down his face while keeping a wary eye on him, cursing under his breath in at least six foreign languages about assholes and career killers and 'his goddamn luck'. However, Tobirama still counts it as a win when Madara gets up anyway and storms into the kitchen.

_Now_ , he thinks, opening the file to look at a grainy photo of a slimmer man who resembles Madara, _let's see where YOU got to so I can get back to more important things._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([original tumblr post](https://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/154493383495/hmmm-um-20-from-the-soulmate-au-madatobi))
> 
> So I read this [list of AU prompts](http://blackkatmagic.tumblr.com/post/146005437250/bella11rules-c-is-for-circinate-so-i-know) when searching for ideas, and I really liked several of them. This was drawn from #3: _"My parents thought I was working for an insurance company in New York when really I was joining the CIA so I just sort of never mentioned when I met you on an assassination-gone-wrong and now we’ve been married for five years and they still don’t know you exist, this has gotten wildly out of hand and you won’t stop laughing about it._
> 
> Obviously this a prologue to that situation. I might one day write the actual prompt because I love the idea of CIA Tobirama, who told his family he was in insurance to both avoid worrying them and to keep his brother too bored to stick his nose in his business. Except he didn't count on Hashirama's tendency to make friends with people he shouldn't, and now he's been trying (and failing) to come up with a way to explain to Hashirama that the injured mercenary his stupid brother dragged in is his husband of five years while Madara laughs hysterically on the couch and Hashirama worries it's from a bad drug reaction to the pain meds.


	5. physical discomfort with distance, MadaTobi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not that she didn't _want_ Madara to one day find his soulmate. She's happy for her son. She really is. It would be nice if he had been a bit more sensible about it, but that's probably asking too much.
> 
> But _who_ the boy is... Is it truly necessary for the gods to make the soulmate phenomenon more difficult than it already is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HAPPY NEW YEARS!!!**
> 
> Requested by two anons on tumblr. Thank you [squidspawn](https://squidspawn.tumblr.com/) for beta reading and for your two amazing pictures of Madara and Izuna's mother, Masaka. They're so pretty.

A punch to the throat, a knee to the gut, collapse the ribcage, and the first assassin falls.

Satomi grunts behind her, taking a kunai to the shoulder as the older woman gets between a second ninja and her grand-nephews.

"Mom!" Izuna screams.

She drops, ducking under a sword that nicks her braid. Hand bracing hand, elbow _up_ into the gut, assassin exhales, shoot to her feet, grab the man by his collar and—

Breathe in, gather chakra, and when he inhales, put her lips near his and shoot fire down his throat.

She drops the burning corpse, red eyes whirling as she spins to face the last assassin. Izuna has dragged Madara off the healer's cot and down to the floor, hiding his older brother under the flimsy safety of the cot before standing up with his sword. Satomi's struggling - slowed by age and wounds, hindered by her limited weaponry and her years off the battlefield, unable to fully dodge with an unconscious teen to protect.

The assassin glances briefly at his fallen comrades and refocuses on _Izuna_ rather than Madara.

Her son shifts. Satomi launches poisoned senbon. The assassin dodges and she slams a chakra-filled fist into her aunt's floorboards. The other three stumble as the wood splinters, and she grabs at the kusarigama at her back.

The ninja rises, sword aimed for her son ( _HER SON!_ ), and Izuna steps back.

Metal whirls in the air, a blade lashes out, Izuna's sword comes up, and with a wet crunch the man's head caves in.

Uchiha Masaka watches the last assassin fall with narrowed eyes and a soundless snarl. She has her kama in one hand, her chain in the other, and her weapon's weighted end is half-buried in the crushed skull of her latest enemy. It's a familiar pose in a familiar location with familiar people and the unfamiliar combination of all those factors makes her so furious she feels her skin might burst from containing it.

"Well," Satomi says dryly, sitting down on the edge of the cot and giving a distastefully irritated look at the kunai embedded in her shoulder, "that was exciting. Good kami, this is the sort of nonsense that's supposed to bring people _to_ my healing rooms, not occur _in_ my healing rooms. What a mess. And I despise trying to get blood off of wooden floors, too. At least they're not tatami. Although you didn't exactly leave much of my floor _intact_ either, Masaka."

"My apologies, Satomi-ba-chan," Masaka says, taking controlled breaths as her fury and sharingan fade. She yanks her weapon free from the corpse with a quick jerk of her wrist, coiling the chain in a loop around her arm from long habit as her aunt waves dismissively. "Izuna, are you alright? Come here, sweetie."

"I'm fine, mom," he says, sheathing his sword as he walks forward. Masaka moves her kama to her right hand, holding it and the bloodied weight away from her body as she kneels down. She brushes Izuna's hair away from his face, carefully checking him for injuries, blinking her sharingan back on to memorize the look of him: still healthy, still alive, still perfectly unharmed. "Really, mom, I'm ok! How did they _get in!_ "

"Dead guards obviously," Satomi answers, grabbing scissors off the low table nearby and beginning to snip a neat cut through her kimono from the collar to the kunai. "Because if they aren't already dead they will be soon."

"Wha, wha' happen'd..." Madara slurs, holding a hand to his head and blinking slowly out at the room from where he's sitting up, arms braced against the cot.

"Madara!" Izuna yelps, startling while both Masaka and Satomi blink at the young teen in surprise.

"Boy," Satomi says in exasperation, dropping the scissors so she can quickly grab her grand-nephew as he starts tilting sideways, "exactly how many sedatives do I need to _give_ you to keep you under?"

"None! None, I'm fine, I'm fiiine," Madara drawls insistently, trying to push his great-aunt away and failing pitifully given his closest shove is at least three inches away from where her arm actually is.

"My rooms mean we use my definitions," Satomi says, sending a fondly unimpressed look towards her niece, "and that is not the proper usage of the word 'fine'." She gently pushes Madara sideways, snorting softly in amusement as he tips right over into Izuna who had knelt down next to him. "I would say you should have prayed harder for daughters," she tells Masaka as the younger woman rises, cleaning blood off her weapon with a nearby cloth, "but I've heard that definition of fine from you before too."

"Satomi-ba-chan, that's rude. Don't insult my sons, please. Or me for that matter," Masaka scolds absently, tucking her kusarigama back into its holster before helping Izuna guide a wobbly Madara to sit down next to Satomi on the cot. "Izuna, go find the first adult you can and tell them I'm ordering our internal security to its highest response level until further notice and then _stay with them_ until they can escort you to me or your father or your Uncle Kenrou _._ Understand?"

"Yeah, I understand, but..." Izuna hesitates, looking at his brother in concern and Masaka hums soothingly, running a hand through Izuna's hair and cupping his cheek.

"He'll be fine, sweetie, I promise."

Izuna takes one last look at his brother next to him who's almost fallen asleep against Satomi's side and nods. He gets to his feet, nimbly hopping over one of the corpses and avoiding the ruined floor, and heads out of the room at a light jog.

The two women listen to his steps fade in the distance and as soon as they're gone, Satomi sends Masaka a sharp look. "He's _not_ fine," she says pointedly, gently hugging her dumb nephew against her side as her lips thin. "It's not even going to be possible to hide it at this point."

"I was afraid of that," Masaka replies, keeping a calm expression with effort. She takes a breath, kneeling in front of her son and grabbing his hands. "Madara. Madara, sweetie, look at me."

"Hm?" Madara stirs, staring blearily before jerking up. "I'm fine! I'm fine. Really mom, I'm fine! Just—"

" _Sweetie_ ," she stresses, gently coaxing him to look at her. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine! I..." Masaka raises both eyebrows at him and her son wilts, eyes drifting away from her face and fidgeting guiltily, too drugged to hide it better. "Really, mom, I... I..."

"Does anything hurt right now still?" she asks, rubbing her thumbs over his palms.

"No," he says quietly.

" _Madara,_ " she warns.

He mumbles something unintelligible before nodding reluctantly. Masaka looks up at Satomi, brows drawn together in concern but the experienced healer just shakes her head.

"I can't give him anything more without repercussions. Proximity pain isn't something easily drowned out even by opiates, and we absolutely do not want to add pharmaceutical problems to our current mess."

"So he has met his soulmate then?" she asks, squeezing Madara's hands with worried delight. "But if he met them on his last mission to steal those documents it's only been eight days at most. Even at the very beginning when I first met Tajima, our symptoms didn't set in so harshly so quickly."

"Oh no," Satomi says, voice as light and dry as paper, "I assure you it's been more than eight days."

Masaka pauses, thoughts running at lightning speed before she slowly turns her head back towards Madara. She stares at her eldest son, absently tossing her head to throw her looped braid back over her shoulder, watching as Madara's shoulders start inching up under her gaze. "More than eight?" she repeats, watching Madara wince at the particular edge of politeness seeping into her voice.

"Oh yes," Satomi replies, patting Madara's shoulders with a flat expression before picking up the scissors again. "I'd say an absolute _minimum_ of two and a half weeks. Congratulations. Madara is definitely your son. Tajima certainly doesn't have this level of pain tolerance and unwavering stubbornness. Well, our clan head has a bit of the stubbornness for sure, but my point stands."

"Mom, I..."

"Two and a half," she repeats blankly, body stilling as a twinge of nausea seeps in. The longer soulmates are together the easier it is for them to separate without repercussions, but _Madara had just met his_. She can still remember that unfortunate mission in her early twenties when she and Tajima were stuck in different countries for two months and how problematic that was even though they'd been married for _years_ at that point! Why would her son—

And then the fuse caught fire.

" _Over two and a half weeks ago_ ," she breathes, realization dawning as her eyes widen. "That's why you didn't mention—" She rises to her feet, lips pressed together as she sharply strides off.

"Mom!" Madara jolts, trying to scramble up before Satomi grabs his shoulder and shoves him back down. "Wait, I just- I'm sorry! I... Mom?" he trails off, confused as his mother kneels next to one of the bodies, hauling the dead man up by his hair with a piercing look on her face.

Masaka looks over the first corpse carefully, the one whose chest she had collapsed and whose head is therefore intact and undamaged. Brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin... not too attractive but not ugly either. Average really. Perhaps even deliberately so. But it's not someone she recognizes herself. There's no insignia on the clothes or armor either.

She drops the head back to the floor, indifferent to the corpse's meaty thud as she moves on to the body of the second man she had killed. It's much the same: its features are standard and within the average phenotypic range for several possible clans.

"Mom?" Madara asks, voice still a little groggy even as he forces himself to stay awake, watching her move about and bracing himself on both sides of his body as Satomi goes back to cutting herself out of her kimono.

"Just a moment, Madara," Masaka answers distractedly, slipping her foot under the last corpse and kicking it onto its back with perhaps more force and dark enjoyment than is strictly necessary. It's just as devoid of identifying features as both of the first two, and the left side of its skull is collapsed into a bloody mess of fluids, skull fragments and pinkish white brain tissue, but here she gets lucky.

This one she personally recognizes.

"Senju," she announces with certainty, turning to look at her son. "These were Senju shinobi and, now that I consider it, they didn't directly attack you despite how you were clearly their target. Your soulmate is that _Senju boy_ from the river incident your father spoke of. _That was three weeks and five days ago, Madara!_ "

" _Well!_ " Satomi declares, pausing from where she's carefully peeling her kimono away to watch with raised eyebrows as Madara grimaces. "I take back a quarter of the imprecations I have lambasted upon you today for your abject stupidity. That's only a mildly moronic reason not to mention you've met your soulmate instead of an utterly moronic one. It's certainly an unwanted difficulty."

"Satomi-ba-chan, if you would kindly cease," Masaka requests firmly, watching her son. "You should have told me of this immediately, Uchiha Madara."

"I..." Madara takes a breath, fingers digging into the cot. "I'm sorry. I know it's not— He's a _Senju_ and dad was... If even being friends with a dorky idealist didn't work then I knew nothing else would, especially a soulmate so I was just going to—"

"That's not what I meant, sweetie," she sighs, walking over to thread her fingers through Madara's messy mop of hair. "I am not mad about who it is - you hardly had anything to do with picking your match, and I'm sure if he's yours then he must be a very interesting person. However I am _very_ unhappy that you didn't inform me immediately. I am your mother and I want to know about absolutely anything that has such a drastic affect on your life and health, am I understood?"

"Yeah, mom," Madara mumbles from where his head's resting against her stomach.

"Good. Now come here," she requests, kneeling down and reaching out.

"Wha-? MOM!" Madara hisses as she hoists him up with a huff, balancing him on her hip for a hug. "Put me down! Put me down, I'm _FINE!_ Mom, I'm thirteen!"

"Hush, sweetie," Masaka says, hugging him against her tightly and resting her head against his. "We're hardly in public and your old mother could really use a hug. Assassins tend to ruin my day completely."

Madara groans in embarrassment, burying his face in her neck and grumbling something about 'no they don't' even as he fumbles his arms up around her shoulders. From Satomi's amused face the poor thing's ears are probably turning that spectacular shade of red they become when he's mortified. Idly, Masaka wonders if hiding his ears is part of why Madara likes the thought of long hair so much, but then her son mumbles 'you're not _that_ old' under his breath and she laughs softly.

Masaka cuddles her son to her chest, her special first born son who's so, so much bigger than he was when she saw him for the first time, all pink and tiny and enchanting and loud and making Tajima freeze up because her husband had had no idea how to get a baby to stop crying. Tears prick at her eyes as she remembers the Senju ninja focusing on first Madara and then Izuna and she takes a deep breath as resolve crystallizes in her chest.

She used to have five sons: five beautiful, imperfectly wonderful boys.

She only has two now. Only Madara and Izuna and an old gut wound that means there's no hope for more children even if the thought of trying again didn't make her tired and heartsick.

She had meant what she said to Madara: she couldn't care a single bit if her son's soulmate is a Senju. She might hate that clan, might have idle plans for half a dozen different ways she'd like to kill Butsuma especially for her suspicions in whose assassins had killed her middle child, but...

None of it matters. She is an Uchiha and a mother and a kunoichi and a goddamn professional and that means that she will do anything and everything necessary for the good of her family and to accomplish her overarching goal of keeping her sons alive and healthy and happy.

She's willing to share her son if necessary. She is _not_ willing to lose him.

Madara murmurs nonsense, one arm slipping off her shoulder as he relaxes and she hums, realizing he'd slipped back into a drugged sleep again over the last few minutes. She smiles against his hair, rubbing Madara's back before sighing as she looks down at the corpses on the ground.

What would be the best method to deal with this...

"Ouch," Satomi says flatly. Masaka glances back up at her aunt to see that she had removed the kunai and had bandages pressed firmly against her wound. Satomi catches her looking and nods at the bodies. "A fine mess we have here. Three dead bodies, a thirteen-year-old in the midst of a severe case of proximity stress because his soulmate is a member of our most dangerous enemy clan, and, ah yes, my floor is covered in blood. Again. Where it's not in pieces. Damn Senju can't even die neatly, although you certainly never help there, Masaka."

"Would you like a written apology as well as the verbal one, ba-chan?" she offers considerately. "I had planned to have it fixed for you, but if you'd rather I refrain from getting further involved, I certainly understand."

"You're just as cheeky as your second brat under all those manners," Satomi says, amused as she carefully slips her left arm out of her damaged kimono top while holding the bandage in place. "It's fine. Send over whoever you like and I'll supervise them to ensure it's fixed well. And I'll have them haul the bodies away for disposal while they're at it."

"Alright, then I'll... _hmm_ ," Masaka trails off, eyes drifting back to the corpses as her hand pauses on the back of Madara's neck.

"I know that look," Satomi murmurs, watching Masaka's expression slip into a thoughtful neutrality. "That's the same look you had right before beating your brother senseless with the gunbai he had said you'd never be able to use. Or that truly memorable time with that sand-wielding shinobi where you decided that the most sensible decision was to try turning a chunk of desert into a mass of glass."

A pained look flitted over Masaka's face. "In my defense, I was twelve, we're almost never hired for desert missions, his sand was both irritating and difficult to deal with, and glassmaking is a luxury art: you couldn't expect me to have known that the melting point of sand is far higher than katon jutsus are capable of outside of the mangekyo techniques—"

"Yes, I could," Satomi interrupts, tightening the knot on her bandage with a firm pull.

"—or I would have tried a raiton jutsu instead. It was a perfectly rational decision given my knowledge base at the time, and it worked at any rate. It was an effective distraction."

"You provided him with superheated sand to assault us with."

"But he was much slower with third-degree burns and we all got away, so it turned out fine," Masaka says briskly. "Now could you kindly cut off this man's head for me?" she requests, gesturing towards the third corpse.

Satomi raises an eyebrow. "You've already turned half his head into sludge. What do you want the rest of it for?"

"I need it to make a point," Masaka offers, lips edging up with a glint in her eye.

"I thought that was what your kusarigama was for," Satomi counters dryly, not moving.

"Strangely enough, bloody heads tend to have more impact as a persuasive argument," she replies, mimicking her aunt's tone. "Now could you kindly put it in a bag for me so I can go track down my husband."

"I _could_ but so could you."

"My hands are full and Madara will wake up if try."

"Put the boy back down on the cot then," Satomi points out, watching Masaka carefully heft Madara up a little further. "He really is far too big for that anyway. He's already up to your shoulder while standing and you look ridiculous."

"That's a matter of opinion and mine is that he's not too big until I can't lift him."

"I think he disagrees."

"He's a boy," Masaka says fondly, combing through Madara's fluffy spikes of hair, "and a smidge dramatic, but I'll get hugs if I want them. He's a good son."

"Not necessarily a sensible one however from the sound of this river event you've both referenced," Satomi says, getting up and holding out her right hand for Masaka's kusarigama before grabbing a cloth bag from her storage shelves. "Befriending a _Senju?_ What was the boy thinking?"

"I suspect I know," Masaka sighs, stepping further back to avoid getting blood on her socks or kimono as her aunt slashes through the corpse's neck. "But perhaps it's a lucky twist of fate—"

"Lucky!?"

"Senju, Satomi-ba-chan, _Senju!_ " she stresses quietly, rocking a bit when Madara stirs. "How long until they met unless the other boy died first? On a battlefield? On a mission? We're in conflict too frequently to have avoided this. Better to meet young before the animosity is personal for them, I think. And if the oldest boy was friends with Madara, then there must be varying opinions in their clan. We can work with that."

" _Really_?" Satomi asks pointedly, nose wrinkling as she stands up and watches brain matter and congealing blood start slipping out of the skull. She quickly drops it in the bag and cleans Masaka's weapon. "Well if you _can_ work with it then I suggest you do so quickly. _Very_ quickly. Frankly I'm shocked Butsuma waited this long to do something. It's his oldest that's Madara's age, yes? It's hard to imagine an even younger child hiding pain like this effectively."

Masaka stops in the midst of replacing her weapon. "The bond isn't _imbalanced_ , is it?" she asks sharply.

"Hardly," Satomi dismisses, tying the bag shut and holding it out. "The boy being a natural sensor is more likely than that, and they're ridiculously rare. Massive psychotic breaks and fuinjutsu are the only things I've heard of that cause imbalances. No, I rather suspect the boy either matches Madara's stubbornness or Butsuma didn't assign observant individuals to mind his children after his wife's death. Madara only hid it so long because he has you and Tajima as a first hand example."

"What do you mean?"

Satomi smirks. "I asked Izuna what he noticed. Madara's been drinking lemon balm tea for at least two weeks. He doesn't like it nearly well enough to do that unless he guessed."

Masaka hums, taking the bag and holding it out by her side. "Well, that's... that's _..."_ she pauses, exhaling slowly through her nose and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.

"Moronic?" Satomi offers.

"How long do we have?" Masaka asks, changing the topic.

Aunt Satomi's grave expression was not encouraging as her eyes shifted to Madara and back. "Don't let it hit two months," she warns. "It differs slightly between individuals, but with two children... They only met once. Their bond only had time to surface and set itself. There's no elasticity in it. It hasn't had months to learn to stretch and relax. There's no give to it yet: it only knows the 'ideal' tension of when it first formed. The long separation immediately afterwards with no relief from the strain and no skin contact..." Her lips tightened. "Get them in contact as soon as you can. Give them at least a day once you do. More would be ideal. Ignore any comments coming out of Madara's mouth if he says he's fine: there's a delay in fully draining stress from a bond even if the relief from pain is immediate. Treat it like the worst separation you and Tajima have had and then get more paranoid."

"Alright," Masaka acknowledges.

She gives herself a brief moment: nuzzling into Madara's hair, breathing in, registering the familiar smell of family and herbs and blood as she allows herself to consider the daunting task ahead of her and the stakes at risk. But with time trickling through her fingers a moment is all she can spare, so she gets herself together, sets the panic aside to deal with later, and strides out of the room with her son and the head.

"Keep the bodies here, please," Masaka requests over her shoulder, sliding the door open with her foot. "I'll need them later on today."

"Wait, what!" Aunt Satomi says indignantly, rapidly following her. "Masaka!" she calls from the doorway, as her niece makes a beeline for the main house. "Masaka, this is unhygienic! What are you up to!?"

"You'll see!"

She strides through the compound, ignoring the attention she gets for carrying her son.

"Mm, mom?" Madara yawns, stirring against her shoulder from the movement and the background noises.

"Go ahead and sleep, sweetie. We're just going to talk to your father," she says, scanning the faces around her consideringly. She couldn't very well leave Madara with Satomi given the circumstances, but _given the circumstances_ it might be better if he wasn't present while she and Tajima discuss this. At least not for the entire conversation which means...

"Ugh, do we have to?" Madara grumbles without force, burying his face further against her neck. "He's going to hate everything about this."

"Don't be ridiculous, Madara, of course we have to, but you leave your father to me and— _Tetsuya!_ " she calls out, abruptly redirecting herself as she spots one of the clan's more talented fighters speaking with his team. "I need you to do something for me, please."

" _Oh god, mom! Put me down!_ " Madara abruptly hisses, shoving away from her and nearly overbalancing backwards as she ignores him and doesn't let go. " _Mom!_ "

Tetsuya looks up as his name is called, straightening when he sees who it is, raising a surprised eyebrow at the sight of the clan's heir struggling to escape from his mother's hold.

"How can I help?" he asks good-naturedly, lips twitching as Madara goes wild-eyed and avoids his gaze. He looks at Lady Masaka for direction but falters at the intense look in her eyes over a mildly unnerving smile. He darts a glance over towards his three teammates, but the unhelpful bastards are all either smirking while avoiding eye-contact with him or looking at...

Tetsuya stares at the slow drip of dark red blood seeping out of the head-sized bag in the kunoichi's right hand and swallows before returning the Lady's smile with one that's a bit wobbly. "Er, sorry, could you repeat that, Lady Masaka."

Her eyes narrow infinitesimally and Tetsuya resists the completely rational urge to back up. "I need you to guard my son while I talk with my husband."

"Mom, I swear, just put me down and I'm fine!" Madara groans before yelping as she lets him drop down to the ground. He wobbles for a moment as he stands and Tetsuya's eyebrows shoot back up.

"What's wrong?" he asks, getting serious as his eyes flicker between the clan's Lady and heir. "We heard security had been increased, but..."

"There were some intruders," Lady Masaka says with what might sound like an unreasonable lack of concern except that Tetsuya's pretty sure he knows exactly what happened to said intruders, "and while they're not an issue, there's the possibility of more coming soon. If you three—" she turns to his team "—would kindly spread the word that they may or may not be Senju and that I'd prefer them to be taken alive and as unharmed as is reasonable without incurring our own loses, it would be appreciated."

"Unharmed?" Tetsuya's second murmurs in confusion even as his team nods respectfully and splits off. "Why _unharmed?_ "

"Tetsuya," Lady Masaka says grimly after the other have departed, placing a hand between her son's shoulders, "their focus was on _taking_ my son. I trust you understand why I'm asking you to keep an eye on him. And prevent anything from happening. At all."

"Yes ma'am," Tetsuya replies promptly.

Madara crosses his arms, sending them both a flat irritated look, but Tetsuya's a bit too busy trying to radiate trustworthiness and competency in the face of Lady Masaka's terrifying and courteous little smile to frankly give a shit.

Tetsuya has seen Lady Masaka fight when her options were thin on the ground. _No thank you_ , he'd rather piss the kid off instead of her: he'll probably live longer that way. Or if not, at least his corpse will be properly respected instead of fed to a summoned falcon as a practical postmortem punishment for insubordination.

"Excellent. Come along, please," the Lady requests, turning around and guiding her son towards the main house.

" _Mom_ ," Madara hisses, walking next to his mother as Tetsuya follows behind them, "why do we need him for talking to dad?"

"Because you're going to wait outside for a bit while I speak with your father."

"What?! But—"

"Don't argue with me, Madara. Your father and I have some important points to discuss first that you don't need to be present for even if the subject matter does directly affect you. Oh don't sulk, dear," the Lady says fondly, pausing at the steps up to the engawa to futilely smooth down her son's hair. "We're hardly going to leave you out of your own affairs since you're perfectly capable. I just want to have a private discussion with your father first."

 _It must be a mother thing_ , Tetsuya thinks to himself, looking at the kid's prickly expression. He certainly wouldn't have called that sulking.

"And Tetsuya?"

"Yes ma'am?"

Lady Masaka smiles. "You're quite skilled: both in battle and at spying on vital information for the benefit of the clan."

"Er, thank you, ma'am?" Tetsuya responds, a little confused but pleased at the recognition.

The smile drops from Lady Masaka's face like it had never been there as her eyes tinge red. "Please keep in mind that your secondary skill set is not desired at this moment, thank you. And keep my son from eavesdropping as well, if you please."

" _Thanks,_ mom," the kid grits out irritably, arms crossed as they both watch his mother glide up the step, her bloody bag dripping periodically at her side.

The shoji door slides shut behind Lady Masaka with a near soundless click of wood on wood and Tetsuya side-eyes the young heir.

"So..." he starts, trailing off uncomfortably as he watches Madara absently rub his temple.

Damnit, Tetsuya is not good with kids. What exactly is a guy supposed to say to a thirteen-year-old? Especially when the kid is extremely skilled, technically outranks him, and might one day be his boss. Oh, and said kid just had his pride stomped on by his loving mother who had toted him around affectionately before telling him to wait outside while his parents talk. Even though the subject involves him.

On top of which, Lady Masaka then assigned the only witness to the entire thing (which happens to be _Tetsuya!_ ) as the kid's temporary babysitter even though Madara is gaining an impressive reputation at an intimidatingly quick rate.

 _You are a competent adult and your superiors have never had complaints about you. Say something, Tetsuya, you can do this!_ Really, how hard can it be? He's probably just overthinking things.

"So how have things been?" Tetsuya asks casually. "Training and everything going well recently?"

Madara stills before dropping his hand and tilting his head up to give the older man such a darkly withering look that Tetsuya is half-way surprised he doesn't feel killing intent. The kid's glare isn't remotely impeded by being thirteen or a head shorter than him. It's kind of unfair from a professional standpoint.

 _Great. Apparently you don't say THAT,_ Tetsuya thinks, laughing weakly and raising his hands. "It was just a question."

Madara makes an angry, frustrated sound through his teeth and turns around, thumping down to sit on the steps, arms braced on his knees as he glares at the ground.

Tetsuya sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and taking up watch at the kid's side while they wait.

He definitely should have been more specific yesterday when he idly hoped for a non-standard mission.

.

* * *

 .

His wife opens the door of their meeting room with a soft, gracious 'excuse me for the interruption,' and Tajima pauses with his tea halfway to his mouth, eying her closely as the three elders he's meeting with turn towards the door.

"You're not excused," Elder Akeno says icily, missing the way Tajima's eyes narrow at him even as Masaka's expression remains neutral and unbothered. "We're in the middle of discussing important matters at the moment. You'll simply have to wait."

"My apologies, Akeno-san," Masaka responds before Tajima has the chance to open his mouth. She glides over to the table, neatly dropping a bundle onto it with a wet thud and kneeling down to sit at Tajima's left hand side. "However, while I don't mean to cause any inconvenience, I really must insist upon speaking privately to my husband about a matter concerning his son."

The four men eye the wobbling bag and the blood pooling underneath it before looking again at the patiently waiting woman. The two oldest elders exchange looks before they nod agreeably and rise to leave, but Akeno simply scowls at Tajima's wife again.

"Akeno," Tajima says, cutting off the other man before he can speak, tone neutral but lacking any respectful suffix which the retired shinobi certainly notices, "we'll continue our conversation at a later time."

The older man is clearly displeased to be dismissed but nods briskly and makes his way out, snapping the door closed with a mild clack that's far louder than a shinobi would produce by accident.

"Do you think," Masaka speculates, pouring herself a cup of tea while Tajima glares at the door, "that the wretched man is simply that arrogant, or is it that he's going senile far earlier than expected and is thus incapable of remembering that my battlefield successes notably surpass his? Because I must admit that the temptation to be done with him is growing daily, and I could take him in a fight even if he _wasn't_ past his prime."

Tajima snorts. "I'm fairly certain your mission history is _why_ he blatantly hates you. Now which of them did what this time? The last time you called one of them 'my son' was when Izuna decided to see if he really could use flour in a katon jutsu and burned his eyebrows off. And why is there a sack dripping blood on our table?"

"I needed to speak with you and the elders are intractable unless adequately persuaded otherwise. A decapitated head is a very efficient method for quickly convincing them to leave," Masaka answers, gesturing loosely towards the sack and taking a long bracing sip of tea which makes Tajima's mood plummet immediately.

No good news ever follows Masaka trying to commune with her tea.

" _Your first born son,_ " his wife begins slowly, tone lingering somewhere between pained, resigned, and utterly unsurprised, "met his soulmate and failed to inform us because he has apparently taken leave of his senses and thinks that a person can out-stubborn the kami and ignore reality if they're determined enough. Or he's concerned about our reactions to something that _he cannot help_ to the point that he'd rather try dealing with the proximity problems alone. _Or,_ " she stresses as Tajima clinks his cup back onto the table and pinches the bridge of his nose, "your dreamer of a son decided - and sadly enough this is the one I _hope_ is true because at least it shows cunning, foresight, and emotional security in us as his parents - that he hated the idea of what would, admittedly, have been our first reaction and decided to torture himself for a few weeks to make it near impossible for us to handle this in the most straightforward manner."

"Just a moment while I get the sake," Tajima says grimly, leaving his wife to her tea while he gets something stronger.

A cup later and he feels more prepared to face this. "Alright," he says levelly, picking up a senbei to snack on, "I assume the girl's not ideal."

"The soulmate is male, dear."

Tajima flicks a wrist dismissively even as he frowns. "Unfortunate, but Izuna and his offspring will just have to inherit after Madara then. Now explain why this sounds like a worst case scenario."

" _Oh it's not_ ," Masaka stresses, coming to sit down casually by his side, knees lightly pressing against his thigh as she raises her tea cup pointedly at him. "Do keep in mind that it's _definitely_ not the worst case scenario, Tajima."

"Then why do you imply our immediate preference would be to kill the boy?" he asks suspiciously, sipping his drink.

"Three weeks and five days, dear."

The date clicks immediately and Tajima inhales part of his sake. He should have known better than to drink before he knew the answer.

" _The_ _Senju boy!_ " he rasps demandingly, coughing to clear sake from his lungs as Masaka hums an agreement, staring contemplatively into her tea. "How is that not the worst case possibility, Masaka! That's not a tenable situation at all!"

"Our son is sitting outside on the steps and the walls are only so thick, dear. Be mindful of your volume." Masaka pats Tajima's leg comfortingly as he stares calculatingly at his sake, trying to decide if he prefers to be slightly drunk or stone cold sober for this conversation. "And you're not thinking clearly of the possibilities if you think this is the worst. For starters, it can't be the eldest son because Madara met him months ago with large breaks between meetings."

"That doesn't negate the problems caused by the boy being a Senju!"

"Secondly," his lovely and terrible wife continues, "it was also the first time Madara came into contact with Butsuma."

Masaka stares at him with a raised eyebrow as Tajima takes in her implication and deliberately moves the sake bottle further away from himself.

" _That_ ," Tajima declares, "was unnecessary, wife."

"It's my duty to point out any flaws in your logic, husband," Masaka responds dryly, patting his leg again as he stares back at her unimpressed. "I would be a terrible wife if I failed to point out overlooked possibilities that might alter your opinion of important situations. Now look at the bright side: Madara's certain it's the second child without any hesitation."

Tajima scoffs, torn between lingering gut reaction of disgusted anger and wary amusement. "That had nothing to do with why you brought that possibility up and we both know it. I just don't know your reasoning yet."

He reaches up, tugging loose the tie holding Masaka's bun and looped braid up, watching his wife's long hair fall to the floor abruptly as the wire and miniature metal thorns she had hidden in her braid pull it down. "Sometimes I wonder why I married you," Tajima mutters, running fingertips lightly over the trapped hair.

"No you don't, dear," Masaka responds serenely. "You like dangerous people who are as willing to be ruthless as you. Especially when they pleasantly surprise you."

Tajima grimaces, mind brought back to this very much unwelcome topic. "Well, _this_ surprise I could do without if you'll get rid of the damn thing for me."

"Sorry, Tajima, the gods didn't take any human opinions into consideration before sending souls down this time. We're rather stuck with the situation. It's just a matter of how we respond now."

Tajima takes another sip of sake, considering the factors carefully as his left hand fiddles with the end of his wife's braid. "What constraints did your aunt impose when you dragged Madara to see her?" he asks, abruptly frowning down at his hand when he realizes Masaka's hair had been sheared at an odd angle.

"It's been nearly a month," Masaka reminds her husband, amused that Tajima had resorted to thinking of this as mission preparation. "She says we have a conservative estimate of two months, but that sooner is absolutely preferred. Tellingly," she adds, tone becoming somber, "she pointedly refrained from sharing what would happen at that point but..."

Masaka trails off as she and Tajima both imagine the grim possibility.

Proximity pain isn't fatal in and of itself, but the stress it inflicts on the body... Heart attacks and strokes are only too common in later stages. Even for the healthiest and most resilient humans. Certainly the longest she's ever heard of pairs lasting apart was eight months and the Uzumaki are perpetual outliers anyway.

It's the prime detriment and weakness of soulmates: proximity pain increases with time spent apart. There's a buffer before it starts, and you can gradually accustom the bond to more time and distance before the reaction hits, but it's always a factor to remember. The only thing that permanently neutralizes the soulmate proximity draw is death of one of the soulmates. And, for better or worse, that simply freezes the bond in the state it was when the first soulmate died. So results range from being acceptably livable if the bond was lax at the time of death to outright torturous if it wasn't.

It's why some shinobi clans and civilian nobles favor the controversial decision of quietly killing their other half while the bond is stable: it eliminates a potential future disability. The Uchiha don't tend to favor that by default given their fierce focus on family, but...

Well. Senju.

"How long would they need to stay near each other?" Tajima asks calculatingly, thumb stroking her hair.

"Satomi-ba-chan wants a minimum of twenty-four hours and physical skin contact."

"Difficult," Tajima considers, "but doable. We can keep the Senju unconscious for that long before killing him. Perhaps have Madara sleep through it as well so our son doesn't have time to get attached before it's done."

"That is one option," Masaka admits, voice deceptively light as she stares at Tajima, drinking her remaining tea and casually holding out her cup.

"Don't do that," Tajima requests flatly, picking up the pot to serve his wife another cup. "Every time you start with that tone you end up ripping gouges into the topic and this is the _only_ option."

"It's the only _palatable_ option if we're being accurate," she corrects. "However other factors have made it less likely to be successful. For example, dear husband—" she gestures to the bloody bag with the crushed Senju head inside and smiles "—while we may hate them, the Senju are quite skilled. Yet Butsuma tried having his men fulfill that exact order today and it didn't quite work. One could in fact say it failed miserably while leaving the Senju worse off than when they had started."

"They weren't prepared for _you_ ," Tajima adds, a dark smirk edging up his face.

Masaka taps his jaw fondly. "As flattering as that is, dear, let's not pretend you aren't already aware of the issues with that course of action. It's been three and a half weeks, love. We aren't going to be lucky enough to catch the boy outside his clan grounds given Madara's state of health. Unless you have some of our kinsman you'd like to throw away in pursuit of a pyrrhic victory, we aren't going to pry the child out of his clan compound."

"We could probably manage a more straightforward assassination," Tajima offers stoically, just to put the option out there.

Masaka's lip curls in distaste, hinting at a snarl his manner-conscious wife would never perform in public. "Yes, and while we're at it, we may as well kill Madara ahead of time and save our son a very _short_ life full of pain. He's drugged to the metaphorical gills right now, Tajima. He'd be a walking target as a shinobi if he could even manage the lifestyle after that, but a purely civilian life might well kill him quicker. Our son is very unsuited to living on the sidelines. He'll do something desperate eventually if we try to make him. Not that _that's_ a real option either. A civilian heir to a major shinobi clan with a kekkei genkai? I can think of few targets more appealing for bloodline hunters. Especially given he has his sharingan active now."

"I don't like how calm you are," Tajima admits, slowly rotating the bottom edge of his empty cup on the table as his eyes trace Masaka's expression. "You've already come to some internal resolution or you would be less... _zen_ about this. The fact that you're slowly circling around the topic instead of presenting it straight on is _concerning._ "

Masaka stares at him, eyes half lidded and gaze as piercing as her falcons before she nods minutely.

"We need to negotiate with the Senju," she says.

Tajima laughs derisively, refilling his sake cup as Masaka stills dangerously.

"I'm serious, Tajima." Her chakra flexes, components mixing and readying for battle with the habit of years as she prepares to pick a fight. "What options do we _really_ have? We can't kill the child as he is, and if we could we essentially doom our son. We can't kidnap him for the short term to neutralize the bond because Butsuma's focused on that just like we would be. We also can't kidnap him for the _long_ term because all other factors aside the boy is _ten_. His loyalty has to be set by now. We can't keep him without his cooperation unless we imprison him and you know Madara: our son will buck against that given time to care about him. We _need_ the Senju's cooperation to make this work."

"And as soon as the bond is stable, Butsuma will try and kill Madara if his brat doesn't just do it himself," Tajima responds sharply. "I'd rather we not get our son _killed,_ Masaka!"

"And I would rather we not _maim him for life!_ " Masaka hisses back, putting her cup down with precise control. "Long term consequences—"

"Don't matter in the least if they kill him in the short term!"

"I can TAKE Butsuma if needed!" she reminds her husband. "He's best against swords which _I don't use_ , but I _can't_ go through him AND the rest of his clan and neither can you! None of us are getting near the boy without his clan's assistance, but if we meet and they try to double-cross us they'll be _expecting_ you to fight him. They don't know me half as well and they won't see it coming if _you_ go for the child."

Tajima stills, mind considering the idea from all angles as Masaka presses the advantage.

"Think of it, Tajima," she whispers intensely, fingers digging into his knee. "We can't simply absorb the boy's family into the clan's protection like we've done with some civilians, but we've done a shared fosterage with the Hagoromo—"

"The Hagoromo weren't our enemies when that pair surfaced," Tajima points out, eyes narrowed in thought.

"No, but they were still a shinobi clan and they lived much further away than the Senju. It was made to work then, Tajima! And they're our strongest and firmest allies now! We could implement something similar here. Observed meetings at a minimum... something to just keep the boys healthy as they grow... They've already lasted nearly a month apart while functioning before they both were caught. Given time they'll be formidable and both clans will have enough leeway to not encounter each other as often. If we can just get them old enough, they could handle their own affairs, arrange their own meetings... and they'll both be in major positions of influence within their clans if they live long enough."

"It's insane how you can make the most ludicrous propositions sound workable," Tajima remarks, pouring another cup of sake as he divorces himself from his own hate to consider the idea objectively.

"High-risk, husband. High-risk but _high pay-off_. Shinobi don't turn down employers just because the mission's dangerous and this has _possibilities._ Butsuma only has two sons left, Tajima. Think of that. What are the chances!" Masaka exclaims quietly, mindful of being overheard by Tetsuya and Madara. "It was _reckless_ of Madara but he _befriended_ the elder son. They get along and _you_ told me that the boy kept trying to talk to Madara at the river even though Butsuma must have hated that dearly. An older son who wants peace with questionable respect for his father and a second son who's the soulmate? Even if it's an aberration and the attitude isn't perpetuated in the clan as a whole, we are _not_ going to get a better setup to alter the status quo than a division of interests in the Senju's main bloodline."

"I wasn't aware we were _interested_ in changing the status quo," Tajima comments raising an eyebrow.

Masaka directs a wide smile at him with a slight show of teeth. It transforms her slightly pretty features into something that's strikingly captivating. "Tajima, my dear love, if you pass up an opportunity to grasp an advantage, improve our son's life, and possibly marginalize one of the leading causes of death and disabilities in our clan just because we hate the Senju passionately, I will be _emphatically_ disappointed in you."

The Uchiha clan head hums neutrally, reaching out to pull on the knot keeping the bloody bundle tied. It comes undone and he takes a moment to appreciate the gory sight of an enemy who's permanently finished before flicking the cloth back over the face. "I don't know, Masaka. Would your disappointment involve delivering more or fewer dead Senju to me because I could get accustomed to this," he says dryly, already starting to resign himself to this madness.

"Dear, if you wanted bloody heads gifted to you, you should have mentioned sooner. I have two more corpses available already," Masaka offers, blinking over a sip of tea. "I can deliver the next ones to you right away. Perhaps in bed? For you to wake up to, you know? I assure you, blood isn't that difficult to get out of sheets if you really want the experience that fervently. And afterwards I can just switch to other body parts."

"No thank you, wife," Tajima replies, tugging gently on her hair as he finishes off his second cup of sake. "Do you even have a plan for beginning this lunacy of yours? Something more thought out than your sand maneuver."

Masaka frowns. "You need to stop listening to my aunt."

"I would _love_ to," Tajima says honestly. "Just as soon as you convince her to stop volunteering her unwanted opinions. In the meantime I'm going to appreciate the sole non-medical benefit of having to deal with her."

Masaka shakes her head to refrain from rolling her eyes at her family. "I plan to appeal to a third party. Someone neutral who can be respected by both sides but without a bias towards either clan. _Preferably_ a party who strong opinions on the care of children regardless of who their parents are. The Uzumaki would be suitable if not for their relation to the Senju. I don't know enough about their opinion of Butsuma to risk it."

"You could ask the Inuzuka," he offers with a mocking smile. "The mutts certainly have vicious opinions on childcare."

"Did you suggest that specifically because you know Butsuma personally hates them?" Masaka asks, humor in her eyes.

"It's a benefit that crossed my mind," he admits with a smirk. Except then he frowns because Masaka starts looking thoughtful. "Masaka. Masaka, that wasn't a legitimate proposal."

"You should know better than to offer opinions you don't want me to consider," she says, ignoring her husband's dawning disapproval. "They could potentially work. Although they'd probably demand that we cease the child hunting tactics in exchange for getting involved."

_"Masaka."_

"It's not like those teams aren't distasteful anyway, Tajima. Useful, I'll reluctantly admit, but distasteful. As long as they demand the same of the Senju, I don't have issue with complying." She ignores the way Tajima pinches the bridge of his nose again. "I'll present it to them myself rather than having you do so. It'll divorce the issue slightly from being a matter of the _entire_ Uchiha clan and redirect it slightly towards being a family issue. And I have had a few beneficial cooperations with their shinobi over the years since they never object to aerial support and gender doesn't matter as much to them so long as you know how to correctly present yourself."

" _Dogs,_ Masaka. They're like overgrown humanoid _dogs_ and that's to say nothing of their actual mutts."

"Fake it, Tajima," she tells him, devoid of sympathy. "The entire purpose of manners is to successfully interact with people so you don't offend them and everyone can get what they need. I know you have some and I certainly don't care if you genuinely like them so long as this works."

Tajima sighs, accepting that the entire situation is going to be deeply irritating where it wasn't also dangerous and stressful. "Is there anything _else_ you want from me, wife, before I go track down the elders you politely banished and get back to more ordinary matters?"

"Yes. Talk to your son so he doesn't think you resent him for this messy state of affairs. Especially given the recent river debacle that led to it all," Masaka answers, setting down her empty cup and taking her hair tie back from Tajima.

"That doesn't sound like something Madara would worry about," Tajima replies with a raised eyebrow, watching as his wife gathers up her hair, remaking a bun at the top before re-pinning a loop of her knee-length braid so that the trailing end only reaches her back.

"Well Madara would never admit to being concerned about that even if he was," Masaka sighs, tugging to make sure her hair style is secure, "so kindly do so anyway, dear. Oh, and please identify someone else that the Senju are currently at odds with who would have probable reason for being nearby. People we don't like, if you will."

"I can name a few," Tajima says slowly, interested as he looks to her for explanation.

Masaka looks up through her lashes at him with sharingan eyes as she reties the bag with the head. "Corpses don't benefit us in negotiation, dear. And it's such a shame to be known as masters of genjutsu if that's never a tactic we use. So I'd like to find someone capable of taking out three Senju and just... _convince them_ that they were the ones who did it. Natsumi's bloodline has that nasty little trick with their mangekyo. I imagine it would be terribly useful here, don't you think?"

Tajima smiles appreciatively. "I think you should pull Natsumi and whoever you need off guard duty and I'll have names for you within the hour."

His wife smiles, giving him a quick kiss before standing. "I'll track down Izuna and have him wait with his brother and Tetsuya until you're done with the elders. Sorry about the blood, dear."

"It's fine," he dismisses, stretching as he watches her walk to the door. "Perhaps it'll make the elders wrap it up quicker if it's still there during the meeting."

"Well in that case I'll just send them right back in then," Masaka says over her shoulder, smirking lightly. "You should have at least one pleasant thing today."

He hums, dissatisfied as he looks at his sake again. "Don't remind me. I'd like to ignore it for at least half an hour longer before everyone _else_ gets wind of this."

His wife just chuckles and shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([original post here](http://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/155248357570/23-for-madatobi-pretty-please))


	6. soulmates start seeing color, IzuMito

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmates make color descriptions messy, frustrating, and occasionally vitally difficult, and Mito would have appreciated meeting hers in a situation which had less in common with those adjectives.
> 
> Izuna, on the other hand, thinks that vicious explosions are a perfectly desirable trait in a partner provided he's _not near the blast radius next time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [elenathehun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elenathehun) as a birthday gift. I hope you like it.
> 
> I decided it would be helpful to actually RESEARCH color blindness before writing this chapter, and promptly decided after that to write the prompt a bit _differently_ than others may have interpreted it. Color blindness does vary for individuals so this is generally accurate, but descriptions may not fit all people who have it. Enjoy.

This is fucking ridiculous.

Izuna drags a hand down his face, closing his eyes to the massive warehouse full of various merchandise, and sincerely regrets asking his father for this mission. He certainly hadn't wanted to accompany Uncle Kenrou's group to the western desert with his brother (of all miserable places), but he also hadn't realized at the time that he'd have to track this group of thieves south and east to cut over nearly the entirety of Hi no Kuni, sneak past patrols from several different clans (most of whom would love to kill him), and then _curve back upwards_ to stop within kunai-throwing distance of the Yu no Kuni border.

And now he's finally caught up to his quarry, except they've already sold his client's priceless (and pointless) trinket to a merchant.

A very _successful_ merchant.

One who possess an unnecessarily large stock in his opinion and is either the most disorganized and eclectic woman Izuna's ever come across or who has evidently met her soulmate and decided afterwards to implement a _color-based organizational scheme_ among her products.

Which makes this night _so much better_ given that to him everything just looks like a mass of yellows and grays with a scattering of blues.

What kind of inconsiderate, inefficient, and _short-sighted_ merchant organizes their warehouse by color!? Yes, yes, there are obviously individual groupings of similar items among each greater section - furniture with furniture, rugs with rugs, jewelry with jewelry - but at least seventy percent of the average population is color impaired in some way at any one point in time! How the hell does she stay in business? Does Akiyama only hire workers who can see in full color?

... No. No that would be foolish, Izuna realizes, silently drumming his fingers on his sword hilt. Akiyama didn't establish a large mercantile network by vastly limiting her employee base. If her merchandise is organized by primary color after it's purchased, and all the employees know the organizational scheme, then items wouldn't need to be rigorously labeled for color as long as there's at least one full-sighted staff member who can run checks that the system is being maintained.

Theoretically, it might shave time off in day-to-day affairs. If time is money, that's obviously a benefit from Akiyama's perspective.

This, of course, does not change the fact that _Izuna_ doesn't know the warehouse's system and thus can not easily rule out any areas. He also can't afford to genjutsu one of the workers to fetch it for him because his client wants the theft kept as quiet as possible which means any potential evidence of his presence is a bad idea. And he _has_ to find it tonight because while he has confirmation that one of Akiyama's employees purchased it five hours ago, he has no idea how long it takes this branch to process items.

"A brilliant emerald in a silver setting," Izuna mutters, eyes darting from one end of the building to another. Silver's easy enough, he knows he sees that in the same shade as his matched parents, but emeralds are supposed to be green and green is one of the most widely common problem colors. He has no idea what green actually looks like to soul-matched people, but...

_'Red for running blood_

_Pink for sakura blooming_

_Orange for mikan_

_Yellow for the sun_

_Green for healthy, growing grass...'_

Izuna may or may not pout like he's ten-years-old again as he mentally double-checks part of the color haiku. Grass under a summer sun always appears to be a yellow or gray-yellow to him. Which is a problem because over _half of the contents of this room_ are in some variation of yellow!

He resists the urge to sigh and makes his way to the right. He'll need to run a systematic grid search to make sure he doesn't miss the pendant given its small size. At least he can rule out anything that's colored an intense blue. Judging from past experience, those items have to be either legitimately blue or some shade of purple.

... This would be a lot easier if he could afford to use a brighter light.

( It's going to be so _very_ satisfying when he turns those thieves in for their bounty on top of his mission pay. He's positive they must have a bounty among the civilians: he can't be the only person they've angered if they've successfully robbed a noblewoman while being incompetent enough to still get _noticed_. )

.

.

Izuna finally finds the uselessly overpriced bauble at around four in the morning. He's tired, cranky, twitchy from dodging random guard checks, and suffering a horrendous headache both from straining to see details in low-light and from frequently flicking his sharingan on and off for better night vision.

The palm-sized pendant really doesn't look impressive enough to be worth this hassle, if he's honest. He's aware it must be very expensive considering the size of the gemstone and the mission fee his client is willing to pay for its retrieval, but from a purely aesthetic point of view Izuna can barely think of anything to recommend it. The emerald looks like solidified incense ash to him even if the silver is molded in an admittedly elegant, antique design.

But a mission is a mission and his is finally done. He even has a little time left before his family starts worrying, which means he has the opportunity to do something for himself.

Maybe he'll take the scenic route back after disposing of the thieves who have lingered nearby. He's never seen the ocean before.

.

.

"We dead. We _so_ dead."

"Shut yer mouth and keep moving! We'll just— we'll put 'er in the pit with the others and be done with it! Nobody's gonna dig up all of those bodies just looking for one girl."

"She got a _devil's_ hair, Taro, a devil's! Ain't seen nothing like it, but _y'know the stories_. Only the _Uzumaki_ got that 'round these parts." Masaharu starts breathing harder, eyes darting around the inn, frantic mania building under the surface as he searches the shadows of the room. "They catch spirits with glowing chains and eat 'em alive. They _know_ things - know how to write down stuff, make all kinds of things happen. Don't even need _words_! Just squiggles and paper and—"

"MASA!" Taro snaps, punching his friend firmly in the shoulder. Masa's eyes dart back to his, jerked out of his high pitched rambling. "She's got _buns_. It's a hairstyle. There isn't anything devilish about it. Now grab that man—" he pointed towards a dead fisherman with blue-tinged skin, bloodshot eyes, and a mouth covered in vomit "—and start getting 'em all on the damn cart. We've gotta get all these folks buried before we can leave, you know that."

"It ain't the style, Taro," Masaharu whispers, fearful as a child. "It the _color_. It like, like _blood_ Taro. It look like blood and flowers. 'Taint natural."

 _Of course it's the color,_ Taro curses internally. Damn Masa's useless soulmate. She met the man, put all these stories in the poor fool's head, and then up and got herself a wasting sickness months later instead of sticking around to deal the results of her messing with her man's brain.

"Listen. Masa," Taro says reassuringly, shaking the idiot's shoulder until he looks at him. "I don't know what color you're seeing, but it's just light colored hair, alright? Look at 'er," he says, waving towards the inn's stairs where the visiting teen had collapsed earlier, sprawled out on the last steps in a simple dress like any other village girl. "She isn't going to do anything. We'll bury them all and be done with it alright?"

Masaharu gulps. "It bad luck to bury the livin', Taro."

"Hey, hey," he scolds, when Masa's attention wanders back to the girl. "She's just a bit slow to die, alright? Some people just die hard, that's all. You heard what those shinobi told us: the poison's fatal, alright? She'll be dead before long just like the rest."

Masaharu hesitates, wringing his sleeves and looking around the inn at all the corpses, each crumbled to the floor wherever they'd been standing when the poison in Taro's pipe smoke had triggered the stuff they'd drunk . "Don't seem right, ta me. It just don't seem right..."

"Well right doesn't keep food in our bellies, Masa, and there isn't any work but what the shinobi wanted. I don't much like it myself, but I'm not gonna let you and me suffer a slow death." Masaharu shudders at the idea and Taro gives him a grim smile and a friendly pat. "Now, have I let you down? Left you behind before even when I maybe should've?"

"No. You're a good friend."

"Right you are. And you're the same to me. So you get the others on the cart, and if it bothers you so much, I'll deal with the girl myself, alright? Alright. Now speed it up, that shinobi was clear about not getting anything till the job is done." He shoves Masa off towards the other bodies and heads to the stairs.

Maybe now they'll actually get somewhere quickly if Masa can just keep focused. He loves the idiot but damn if his brain isn't frustrating occasionally. If the girl just hadn't stopped by earlier today to check in, they'd have had the entire place clear by now.

Taro slows as he approaches the teenager, slipping a hand into his kimono warily and grabbing the shortened fukiya and darts that the shinobi had handed over alongside the poisons. Masa is damn superstitious and probably overreacting, but then again he might _not_ be. The older man always sees things very simply, but sometimes that means he gets straight to the important point without getting fooled by distractions he doesn't understand. Sometimes Masa really _is_ right when his stubborn brain says 'danger', and Taro would be a moron himself if he didn't at least consider it.

And here... well, the girl likely isn't a devil - Taro's mostly sure devils don't get themselves poisoned by normal folks hired for coin - but Masa's right that there's something _off_ about the young woman.

For starters, she actually isn't dead. Which stands out a lot given that the two of them had just spent twenty minutes hauling the bodies of other people who had all died damn near immediately. In addition, now that he's seeing her properly, it looks like he was maybe _exaggerating_ a bit when he assured Masa that the girl is just dying hard. She doesn't much look like she's moving on to the afterlife.

In fact... if anything... Taro would say she looks like she's _crawling her way back._

Taro stops a few feet away, staring warily as the teen stirs, eyes shifting under their lids. He glances over her, looking at the dark golden hair buns, the bluish diamond in the middle of her forehead, the pale skin, the cream yukata, the simple sandals...

 _She's a pretty one_ , Taro realizes, suspicion dawning as he takes half a step further back, bringing up the fukiya to his lips as she cracks open her eyelids, squinting woozily up at the ceiling with dark colored eyes. _She's a pretty one, of marriageable age, with no man accompanying her, and_ traveling alone _... but she was comfortable and composed and rock-solid confident._

The woman's lips pull tight the slightest bit and if he hadn't been getting a little unnerved himself, Taro probably would have missed when she abruptly rolled and tried to shove herself up with an arm. As is, his first dart only grazes her neck and if she hadn't stumbled from the rigged smoke she'd inhaled earlier, he wouldn't have had the chance to reload and fire another.

The girl yanks the poisoned dart out of the meat of her shoulder without a second of hesitation and sends him such a furiously unyielding look through the nauseous tinge to her face that even though she starts to collapse, Taro hurries and hits her with another dart as well.

The girl hits the floor with a muffled thump, and Taro darts a look over his shoulder to check for Masaharu. Luckily the other man is currently on one of his trips outside so there won't be any additional freaking out over this.

 _Not that it wouldn't be deserved_ , Taro thinks, knuckles tight around the fukiya as he resists the urge to rub his worn omamori charm between his fingers for good luck. _That girl definitely isn't normal after all._

Something dark starts to spread out on either side of the diamond on the girl's forehead. It's colored like spilled ink or black bruising or seeping poison depending on which of the now paranoid voices in his head Taro listens to, and its shape changes as it slowly crawls across the girl's skin. For brief moments Taro swears he can see bits and pieces of words in the messy lines forming on the teen's face - as if a sentence of old calligraphy had been stretched and squeezed and then came to life as writhing worms so that a secret language could inch itself across her pale face.

It's just as unnatural as Masaharu swore she was, and with gritted teeth Taro hauls her up on his shoulder and swiftly makes his way to the cart.

He's not sure he believes in devils or curses, but right now the other possibility is shinobi nonsense and that's just as dangerous and bizarre.

They'll be better off getting done and then getting _gone._

.

.

The thieves' heads had not been as valuable as Izuna had hoped for, but at least the ocean is living up to its reputation.

He kicks his foot idly as he lounges on a high branch, watching the waves ebb and flow. The tree is tall enough to provide a good view of the sprawling shoreline while still hiding him in its shrouding canopy, and there's a wind coming through that edges the temperature over from unpleasantly humid into tolerable. The sea shines under the setting sun, glimmering off blue waters as far as the eye can see and for a brief moment Izuna activates his sharingan, memorizing it for later.

The trip here is a nice variation in routine, Izuna thinks, eyes drifting over yellow-white sand and up to the tree line where summer boughs are heavy with dull brown and murky yellow leaves. The sight wouldn't be enough by itself to be worth the long travel time it would take to visit again though. And given that his clan doesn't have any alliances past the Senju lands in the east, and few of their customer requests take them this way for anything but pitched battles, he's unlikely to return.

Suppressing a yawn, Izuna shifts, setting down against the trunk for a light nap until darkness fully sets in and he can start making his way home with less likelihood of being spotted. He strains his senses to detect anything out of the ordinary — unusual sounds or a lurking presence — but there's no sign of anyone who might be a threat. There's only the sun on his face, the tree at his back, and the wind carrying the scent of salt and smoke...

Smoke?

With a frown, the fourteen-year-old climbs up the tree as far as it will bear his weight, taking deep breaths and confirming the hint of smoke and ash on the breeze. He looks windward to the north, towards a town he had avoided earlier while putting distance between himself and Akiyama's warehouse. There's the faintest hint of blackish-gray smoke trailing up from the forest and Izuna eyes it, trying to decide if he should investigate. Most likely it was started by civilians rather than anything spontaneous given it had rained recently, so the chance of it developing into an out of control forest fire is low enough...

He rubs his thumb over the wrappings on his sword hilt, debating with himself before triggering his sharingan, and flinches in surprise at a gleaming star of flickering chakra in the center of his sightline.

Izuna drops to the forest floor quickly, sticking to the waxing shadows as much as he can and heading for that beacon of power. It would be reckless to engage someone that strong without cause this far from his clan, but it's better to have information on who it might be and if he'll need the advantage of attacking preemptively.

The smell of burning wood with an edge of metal increases as he approaches and Izuna slows, slipping back up into the trees and taking the slower route over the branches in favor of a lower chance of being spotted. He can see two civilian-level chakra cores now that he's closer, both barely a wisp of energy next to that building blaze, but there are no other shinobi present.

The trees end ahead, opening up onto a large clearing with a roughly dug pit. There's a burning cart not far off and bodies dropped into roughly stacked piles. Two men steadily move around, dragging the corpses one-by-one to the pit and throwing them in.

The source of the chakra is a girl with fair hair laying face-down on the ground some distance from the corpses. The twitcher of the two men gives her a wide berth at all times, and Izuna's brow furrows, trying to figure out how two _civilians_ got involved with what he'll bet his sword is an downed kunoichi. Or why they're disposing of civilian corpses in a mass grave. The bodies don't look right for natural deaths of illness or starvation, and they don't have the wounds he'd expect on war casualties. And although he can't _rule out_ that another shinobi killed them all and these two are stuck dealing with the leftovers, villagers burying neighbors would show more respect in the tone of their actions and treat the bodies like _bodies_ rather than a grim chore to slog through as quickly as possible without a care for roughness.

The girl starts moving, rolling herself over to reveal a pretty face with odd tattoos covering her skin from hairline to the collar of her outfit, and the corner of Izuna's mouth shoots up along with an eyebrow when the twitchy man freaks out and the calmer one spins around and shoots the girl with a dart.

 _He should have just slit her throat if they're worried_ , Izuna thinks derisively, watching the pretty pathetic scene of two men failing to deal with incapacitated threat. Not that it's any more impressive that the kunoichi got downed by a poison dart. She has all that chakra but apparently no idea how to use it. What a waste.

He watches them hurry through dealing with the last bodies before grabbing the girl. The twitchy one holds her like she's already the maggot-eaten corpse she'll become in a few days, and they throw her into the ditch on top of the other corpses and start rapidly piling dirt over her body in shovelfuls.

Izuna takes one last look at her face, debating about wasting valuable steel by throwing a kunai for a mercy killing. Given her chakra levels, she's more likely to die through the suffocation of being buried alive than the poison she's fighting off, and that's not anywhere near the type of death he would want for himself.

Suddenly her tattoos alight, nearly blinding now in his sharingan, and a visible blaze of light shines through the shower of soil, swirling into the now-writhing lines on her skin with a rush. The kunoichi's eyes slit open, lip curling lightly into the beginning of a snarl as she glares up towards the edge of the pit from her prone position.

Izuna curses aloud as her chakra spikes violently, throwing himself out of the tree at the realization that those are _seals_ instead of tattoos, and has just enough time to rush through a doton jutsu and hit the ground before the world implodes.

Several tumultuous seconds later, a half-deafened Izuna cracks open an eye from his prone position on the ground, feeling a little like that time he'd failed to dodge correctly and his father had accidentally cracked him upside the head with a shinai. There's something about a handsbreadth away from his nose and he flicks his sharingan back on to see better in the darkness only to realize that the thing above him is a _shattered branch_ and that the rest of a massive tree is balanced precariously above him, ready to crush his ribs from where it had been forcibly impaled halfway through the dome of his doton shield.

 _Thank you, Uncle Kenrou,_ Izuna thinks to himself, holding perfectly still as he cautiously flips through hand signs, _for having shoved doton jutsu down everyone's throat._

.

.

 _As a note for the future,_ Mito thinks grimly, spitting out something vile and unidentified and feeling like she'll never be clean again, _an explosion is effective but undesirable when you're under ground level and surrounded by corpses._

She slowly crawls to the side of the now-sloping pit, feeling too dizzy and nauseous from the poison her seals are still purging to risk climbing to her feet. There's a series of... _squishing_ sounds every time she shifts her weight and she drags her lips into a forced smile to suppress her gag reflex as her knee sinks into something that's partly liquefied.

She's burning these clothes when she's out of here. Burning them and creating a design for a sanitation seal even if it strips off the upper layers of her skin like the worst exfoliant she's ever owned. She will _walk home nude and barefoot._ If anyone sees her she'll simply assault them for their clothing.

She's also never drinking oolong tea ever again. A pity that.

Mito digs her fingers into the crumbling earth walls, ignoring the additional dirt that showers down on her arms, and heaves herself up to collapse on the ground. The two men responsible for the worst day she's had in at least four years are several meters away and unmoving, bodies tossed over several felled trees in the newly widened clearing. They're undoubtedly dead or dying from the concussive force and Mito dismisses them as a problem. It's true that she will need to ascertain who was behind their actions and whether she was a target or an incidental victim, but that can come later.

Much later.

Preferably after a thorough scrubbing.

And an expensive bottle of plum wine.

She rolls onto her back, kicking off her shoe into the grave pit with tightened lips when something starts to ooze down the arch of her foot. She's sore all over and she reeks besides and she refuses to look too closely at herself until she either finds a river or gives up and drenches herself in the sea she can smell on the breeze. She reaches up and briskly yanks out the remaining pins from the left side of her hair, disgust lingering when she has to peel a... well, peel something organic and blood-covered off of her bun before the hair can come loose.

There's the subtle rumble of earth moving in the distance and Mito lunges to her feet, no matter how unsteadily.

"You have excellent senses," someone comments. She looks to the side with narrowed eyes, shoving her hair away from her face as it tumbles over her shoulder, and sees a young man—a handful of years younger than her perhaps? Sixteen at the absolute most—step over the gray leaves of a broken cedar tree. He has a hand on the sword at his side, is covered with as fine a shower of soil as herself, and is currently plucking twigs out of his long black hair.

"Mind you," he says brightly, with an undertone that means he's having as enjoyable a day as she is and is probably feeling just as violently inclined, "that doesn't mean I appreciate being nearly blown up."

"What an _unusual_ opinion," Mito responds scathingly, altering her grip on her hair pins as she finally meets his eyes.

The boy stops dead, eyes widening sharply before they proceed to flash rapidly between their current pattern and solid black.

Mito's eyes water as they start _itching_ intensely but she doesn't look away from the other shinobi as colors shift around her. Grey leaves morph into an unknown vibrant color, dark trunks lose the faint pink tinge she'd always known, and even the boy's vivid pink eyes bleed into a richer red.

... This is unexpected.

"Well," the boy says, sounding two pitches higher, wide eyes locked on the wavy fall of her freed hair. He looks a bit dazed as he gives her a smile that's abruptly more genuine. "I did not imagi—" his voice cracks in the middle of the word and Mito raises an eyebrow as he coughs, a dusting of pink surfacing on his cheeks. "This was not quite how and where I thought I'd find you."

"How _old_ are you?" Mito questions pointedly, taking a closer look at the curve of his face and feeling a bit better, in the face of his embarrassment, about the fact that this is quite possibly the most disgusting first impression she could have made.

"How old are _you_?" he counters evasively with a charming smile that has probably fooled a lot of people who aren't her.

"Nineteen," she answers, a little amused to see a subtle twitch in his cheek right next to the crumbled remains of a no-longer pink yarrow flower that's still tangled in his hair.

"A fine age for such a lovely woman," he compliments, both failing to answer the question himself and apparently ignoring the guts, blood, and unmentionables sticking to her in various locations. She's tempted to humor him for that consideration alone but—

"And you are...?" she prompts.

"Izuna," he introduces, nodding politely. "And what brings such a skilled kunoichi to this backwoods pit of iniquity and corpses?" he asks, briefly glancing at the dozens of cracked and collapsed trees with a newly appreciative smile before pausing for a moment, lips tilting up with a sly glint in his eyes. "Aside from poison. And a cart."

"You frustrate your family at times, don't you Uchiha Izuna?" she asks dryly, finally placing why the pattern of light colored eyes with dark rings and spots are familiar. Regular correspondence with their Senju cousins is not part of her duties, but she and many of her cousins had begun to review knowledge about that area of Hi no Kuni three months ago after the Senju clan head had broached the topic of renewing relations with a possible marriage to his son. Mito hadn't been certain at the time that she was even interested in leaving her clan for one so distant, but alliances are worth upholding and perhaps Senju Hashirama would impress her if one of the others didn't fancy him.

( She's even less certain she'll be marrying a Senju now, but ironically the knowledge of that region might still prove useful. )

Izuna's right forearm tenses, wariness flashing over his face at his clan name before, with a rueful smile, his sharingan fades to black. "I assure you, that has never been mentioned to me," he lies cheerfully. "And your name would be?"

"Uzumaki Mito." Something slides down the back of her head, dripping a slimy chunk down the back of her collar, and Mito grits her teeth and makes the mistake of breathing through her nose.

"Do you know of any nearby rivers?" she asks abruptly, interrupting the younger boy's thoughtful perusal of her.

"...Yes?"

"Good. You may come and burn these garments when I'm done bathing." She gestures with her hair pins, intending Izuna to proceed her, and he starts walking, never moving closer than several body lengths despite a clear curiosity about her. It's a little endearing actually that he thinks that's far enough for a head start if she triggers another explosion.

Then again, wasn't the sharingan supposed to capable of perception outside the norm? Hm...

"You're not going to try washing them?" he teases. "Can Uzumaki manifest clothes from thin air then?

She tilts her chin up imperiously. "I had intended to simply take your shirt since it's long enough for minimal decency."

There's a sharp crack as Izuna's previously silent stride manages to land on a large stick. "I would be happy to provide," he chirps, voice _definitely_ higher this time as he stares at her nose and doesn't quite meet her eyes.

... Well, Mito might break him if he's as nice as he's trying to appear, or they might kill each other outright if they end up at an impasse and Izuna's as fierce as what she thought she saw lurking under the surface during his arrival, but at the very least he looks pretty.

That's rather nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([Original tumblr post here](https://hiruma-musouka.tumblr.com/post/159334878165/soulmates-see-color-izumito))
> 
> Inspiration for this chapter was triggered by [this prompt](http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/148693427096/they-threw-her-into-the-ditch-and-started-piling), strange as that is.
> 
> As was implied above, even in a universe full of color blind people, _manifestations_ of color blindness vary. What people commonly think of as color blind -seeing no color at all (known as achromatopsia)- is actually much rarer than than being only partially affected (Anomalous Trichromacy). In addition, anomalous trichromacy varies in severity but ALSO in type. Vision works by depending on three types of cones in our eyes to see three rough ranges of color. These ranges are red, green, and blue light.
> 
> Protanomaly is a reduced sensitivity to red light, deuteranomaly is a reduced sensitivity to green light, and tritanomaly is a reduced sensitivity to blue light (and is extremely rare). As I wrote, I wrote with the idea in mind that Izuna has deuteranomaly and Mito has tritanomaly, so while they are both color blind, they are color blind in _different ways_ and thus actually see colors differently.
> 
> This has very interesting thoughts on how an entire society starts coping with multiple forms of vision which I touched on in this story.


End file.
